


Fallen

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2006-10-17
Packaged: 2018-03-22 22:50:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 113,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3746468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known. </p><p>Sauron/Legolas, Sauron/Maglor, Maglor/Legolas, Others</p><p>AU, M/M Slash, graphic sex, M-Preg, BDSM, D/s, Rape/Non-con, slavery, torture, character death, horror, gore, violence, physical handicap – basically, if you can think of it, it’s likely here somewhere. Generally dark, disturbing, and possibly bad for your mental health. You have been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

**Disclaimer:** Middle-Earth is not mine, neither are Sauron, Maglor or Legolas. They belong to Tolkien. I make no money from this.

 

> **
>
>> > > Fallen
> 
> **

Chapter One

He stalked his prey single-mindedly, creeping up on her silent and steadily. He followed where she led, his bow ready. She stopped, dead still, a sound that was out-of-place had reached her. Legolas watched in rapt attention, his arm pulling back the string of his bow silently, the arrow ready to fly –

He stopped, dead still, having heard a sound that was out of place. He listened intently, lowering the bow as the thinly disguised footsteps came close behind him – then he turned and battled his follower to the ground as the deer took flight, her life saved for now.

From his place atop his brother, Legolas followed the deer’s path through the trees with his keen eyes. “You idiot, Merenon!” he said in disgust, turning back to his laughing sibling and half-heartedly hitting him. “She was mine!” Merenon was several years older, and he seemed to take great joy in distracting him from his hunting.

“She was mine!” Merenon mimicked, giggling. “Careful, brother. Deer don’t make good lovers. They’re way too flighty.” Despite himself, Legolas began to grin.

“Oh, and you’d know,” he said suggestively. Merenon had recently pursued a maid, only to find she was besotted with their much older brother, Daeron. Legolas knew he felt slightly foolish about it now, and he couldn’t resist the dig. Besides which, Merenon was also not a good hunter, and sometimes he suspected Merenon distracted him so as not to be left behind.

His brother only laughed up at him, his eyes twinkling merrily. “There are other deer,” he said, just as suggestively, and Legolas giggled, letting Merenon free.

“Haven’t you two managed to get anything?” a voice asked in disgust, and both of them groaned. Legolas looked up, seeing Daeron standing before them, tall and proud, with a young deer small enough to carry over his shoulders.

“I nearly had one,” Legolas said accusingly, glaring at Merenon as they stood up and dusted themselves off. Daeron was perfect, and didn’t waste any opportunity to show it. He was walking off already, back towards home. Legolas sighed.

“If I have to endure yet another archery lesson because of this, I’m going to kill you,” he said, picking up his forgotten bow and shouldering it. The extra practice he managed to pick up because of Merenon’s interference in his hunting was rapidly making him one of the finest archers outside of his father’s army. He shook his head when he felt Merenon drape an arm around his back.

“Come on, brother. Don’t be like that.” Merenon threw a glance of sheer resentment down the path. “Don’t be like him.” Legolas didn’t answer.

“Look at the bright side,” he suggested, and Legolas eyed him dubiously. “You get to keep me company,” he said with a sunny grin, and in the face of that, Legolas couldn’t keep up his anger for long. He smiled, and they walked back together, arguing in whispers about how best to excuse their lack of success.

* * *

He crept stealthily closer, silent as the breeze through the leaves. A pheasant was wandering carelessly in the clearing ahead. Legolas already had his arrow trained on it. He would get it, as long as Merenon didn’t interrupt. And as long as Merenon didn’t interrupt – he would make a sport out of it.

Getting as close as possible to the bird before it noticed a game was afoot and took to the sky was his current preoccupation. He stifled a sigh when he heard a sound somewhere behind him. _Not now_ , he thought, annoyed, and his attention was so focused on the large bird in front of him he didn’t really notice that the noise stopped, almost as though his thoughts had been heard.

He concentrated, aiming all the while. Another step closer… so silent. Another movement on the other side of the clearing disturbed the bird and it beat its wings furiously making a noise that Legolas couldn’t hear past as it escaped him. The arrow flew wild as he let it go, his focus not on the bird now, but on the trees opposite him. If someone was over there, and someone was behind him, what was going on?

Slowly, Legolas turned in a complete circle, scanning the woodland with his perceptive eyes, but he saw nothing other than trees. In the sky above, the sun went behind a cloud, and the forest immediately gained a gloomier atmosphere. Where was he anyway? He had tracked a deer for hours, only to find the trail gone cold, and then he had spotted the bird. Had he ever been this far out? Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen Merenon for a while. Was it possible his brother _wasn’t_ following him for once? It was unlike him to stay hidden for this long.

“Merenon?” He called out his brother’s name softly, wishing he had thought to take notice of how far he went. As usual, his mind had been on the prize, and on the thought of besting Daeron. Now, he was beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable. He was aware that the wood was changing. No one he knew had said it, but some people were beginning to fear the Greenwood, especially those who did not live within its borders. Those who lived in Imladris, and those of the Golden Wood. They had a new name for this place, especially the south – Mirkwood.

Indeed, it began to seem quite mirky now, with the sun already low in the sky, covered over by grey clouds. He thought he saw movement to the side of him and he whipped his head around, but nothing was there. He had heard rumours of strange monsters in the south too. Huge spiders that were big enough to kill and eat elves or men, possessed of cunning intelligence. Now he began to wonder if they were real, and if he had ventured somewhere he shouldn’t.

Automatically he reached for another arrow, but instead, somehow, he found himself standing with his bow in one hand, and his quiver in the other, holding them out as if in surrender. Slowly, amazed to see himself doing it, he laid them down on the ground, taking the small dagger he carried too and laying that out.

He began to stand up straight, still completely bemused at what his body was doing without his say so, when he fell to his knees in a sudden kind of faint. He clutched the sides of his head, wondering what was happening to him. He felt sick and giddy, as if the world was moving without him while he stayed still, and he moaned once, sure that he would begin to retch if it carried on. But with it the drowsiness increased, and he lay down in the long grass beside his weapons, closing his eyes as he rarely did. The last thing he was aware of was being picked up and carried in someone’s arms, and he smiled in his semi-awake state.

“Merenon,” he murmured. “I knew it was you.” He knew no more then, but drifted away, escaping the sick feeling at last.

* * *

Gradually, Legolas became aware he was struggling. He pulled and twisted his hands in the ropes that held them. When his struggles had no result he groaned. He stilled, trying to determine where he was. He was laid on his back on something hard and cold like marble. He was naked. He was sure his eyes were open but he still couldn’t see. Was it dark? He turned his head, and felt the material of the blindfold he wore against the side of his cheek. How had he got here? As he fought further, realising that his ankles were secured too, he tried to remember what had happened.

He remembered the hunt, and his very sudden, very real nervousness, and then nothing. Almost desperately, he replayed those final moments over and over again in his mind, and yet try as he might, he couldn’t recall anything else. Just as he began to panic, his ears picked up a slight but deliberate scuffling off to the left side of him. From the aching in his shoulders, and the way his wrists and ankles were beginning to feel sore, Legolas grasped that he had been here for some time. But when he spoke, his voice was so hoarse and dry that it didn’t sound like his own.

“Where am I?” he asked out loud. There was no answer, and he began to believe he had imagined the sounds he had heard – but then it happened again. This time he knew for certain that he wasn’t alone, because he heard the sound of liquid being poured into a cup or goblet.

“What do you want with me?” he demanded aggressively of the still anonymous presence. His apparent helplessness and the silence of the other (his captor?) was infuriating him. Again, there was no response, and even the sense that he wasn’t alone diminished in the empty silence.

“Answer me!” Nothing. Legolas pulled violently and frantically at the ropes. How could this be happening? He was Legolas Thranduilion! _Someone_ was going to regret this pretty poor joke – he would make certain of it.

* * *

After some time, he stirred again. He didn’t even struggle. To awaken stretched, his wrists and ankles bound, was disturbing, but so blessedly different to awakening free and insignificant that he almost celebrated it. He was laid on smooth solid stone, probably marble. He felt a coolness on his skin and realised he was naked. He turned his head a little and felt the soft material of the blindfold he wore against the side of his cheek. A memory was on the edge of his mind – something terrible had happened. He lay still then, hiding his wakefulness, and tried to remember.

Before anything else he remembered the ever-present sound of the sea. It had seemed unnaturally loud. After that… if he had been still and quiet already, now he even stopped breathing in his terror, having remembered just what came next. It dawned on him at last that the sound of the sea was gone. It was silent around him, or nearly so. There was the sound of movement on the left side of him.

“Where am I?” he asked out loud. There was no answer, and he began to believe he had imagined the sounds he had heard – but then it happened again. This time he knew for certain that he wasn’t alone, because he heard the sound of liquid being poured into a cup or goblet.

“Are you my punishment?” he asked quietly, desperately afraid, almost to himself. But at his question the noises stopped, the clinking of glass making him think of someone replacing the top of a decanter. Footsteps walked slowly over to him, and he trembled in dread, fearing that this question might actually have an answer.

“Are you so deserving of it?” The voice was mildly surprised and a little curious, still deep and pleasing to listen to, as he remembered from the shore, but he knew who it belonged to and so he tried to get away, only then becoming properly aware that he was tied down and couldn’t move.

“Please,” he whispered. For a moment there was a silence so profound he could almost feel it. The blindfold was yanked suddenly from his eyes and he blinked in confusion, although the light wasn’t terribly bright where he was – the few candles that illuminated the room were far away from the stone table on which he rested.

“Are you asking me…” The voice trailed off as if to consider the next words. He closed his eyes immediately, unwilling to see the owner of that voice as it came closer. He could feel warm breath on his face, and he whimpered submissively. “ _Would_ you ask me, to punish you?”

The next minute or so seemed to last a century, as he wondered if the voice required him to answer. He could still feel the soft tickling of breath against his nose, and he kept his eyes closed in terrible fear. “Well?” it demanded, breaking into his thoughts.

He delayed it as long as he could, but he was helpless and frightened, and more than anything, he wanted Sauron to back away from him so that he could dare to open his eyes, and so, at last, he gave the owner of the voice what it wanted.

“Punish me,” he said softly, shivering. “Please,” he added as an afterthought, and at last he felt Sauron moving away from him a little.

“Very well,” he said, amused, and Maglor swallowed the cry that rose in his throat. “Let us begin, _mûl nín_.”

* * *

The liquid sound stopped, only to be followed by a quiet sloshing, as of someone swirling ingredients together. In fact, this entire situation began to take on the feeling of a ritual, as though his silent aggressor had been through the same motions many times before. Legolas began to feel ignored.

“Who are you?” No answer. “Stop it now, Merenon. This is not funny anymore.” Silence, but he knew really, this was far beyond any joke Merenon would play on him. “Let me go!” After that there was a shuffling, and Legolas quieted, fully expecting to be released. But it wasn’t to be so. He felt the rim of a cup placed against his lips and he tried to turn his head, but then there was a strong hand keeping his head straight, lifting him slightly to drink.

Legolas thrashed around and yet somehow the hand holding him was strong enough to keep his head still. The bitter tasting liquid spilled on his lips, and Legolas hummed loudly, trying to shake his head. Despite his lack of communication, the message must have got through, because the cup was removed. Legolas slumped back with a shaky sigh, spitting the strange substance from his lips.

“Never!” he announced. “Not if you make me thirst for a week!” Still, there was no response to his words, and he felt the first tears of frustration in his eyes as he continued to struggle to get free. “I don’t know who you are, and I don’t care. When I get free from here you’re going to regret this,” he vowed. As if in answer, a long piece of metal was pushed against his lips, and Legolas gritted his teeth against it.

Fingers cruelly pinched one of his bared nipples, and it was so unexpected that Legolas cried out in shock, his captor taking the chance to force the mouthpiece past his lips. Immediately the bitter liquid was filling his mouth, and he screamed the air out of his lungs to rid himself of it, but there was too much. He held his breath, trying again to shake his head, but after only a couple of minutes it was swallow or drown. Legolas chose to swallow.

However bitter the brew was on his tongue, it felt fiery going down his throat, and he began to feel a strange warmth inside him, spreading outwards into his limbs and affecting his thoughts.

“What is it?” he murmured vaguely, wondering why the answer was so important. Oh! Yes… the potion – or whatever it was. It hadn’t eased his thirst at all, and he moaned in protest as he began to get drowsy and weak, barely registering the hands that moved over his naked midriff and belly, seeming almost to stroke him.

“Leave… off… me…” he ordered, his voice blurry, and then succumbed to the intoxication, slipping into a form of reverie.

* * *

His bouts of awareness were short and nightmarish after that. He awoke several times to the sensation of his body being used and filled in the most humiliating way, and he moaned in his distress, losing consciousness again rather than endure it.

At other times he knew his captor was near him, and he struggled to form words, to ask what was happening to him. It soon became clear that he was being kept helpless and immobile. He was no longer tied, and he rested on a soft bed, but he was still unable to move. Despite his infrequent lucidity, the passage of time had still imprinted itself upon his mind, as it did when he slept, and he knew that he must now be considered missing.

“Help me,” he pleaded in one of his more wakeful moments. There was soft laugh near him and he turned his head towards the source of it, the blindfold still hindering his vision. “Don’t,” he moaned, his sprit truly broken at the amusement of his captor.

“Don’t what?” the voice asked pleasantly.

“Don’t laugh at me.” He began to cry silently, shaking with his sobs on the bed he was too weak to escape. Enough of the drug that was regularly forced on him remained in his system to make his muscles useless and he grasped that this was why he was no longer restrained.

“Legolas,” the voice began, and his heart jolted to realise that his kidnapper knew his name. “You are doing very well. Everything is progressing as it should. You still live.” A warm hand rested on his belly as the voice spoke, and this too had become familiar to him. Just to be touched there, and he wondered what it could mean. He searched for the meaning, and then he felt the answer. He didn’t think of it, he became aware of it inside his body. He tried to scream, but he was too weak and all that emerged was a petrified wail of horror.

“No!” he called out uselessly. “No, no…”

“Shh,” the voice commanded, and again he heard the pouring of liquid beside him. Legolas whimpered.

“Not that… not again… please…” He coughed and spluttered when the mouthpiece was pressed into his mouth, resisting it as much as he could, but eventually he drank.

“Good. It will keep up your strength. Yours – and his.” The hand rested on his belly again as he drifted into unconsciousness again, and he knew why now.

More fevered glimpses of the horror followed, this time his eyes were free, but he closed them when he saw the monster that possessed his body. Despite his constantly weak state, the next time he came around he managed to retch in his disgust as his captor walked towards him again. He kept his eyes tight shut, fearing to see the monster again.

“Look at me,” it commanded, and Legolas tried to shake his head. He didn’t know if he managed it. Again, he felt that warm hand on his belly, and then he heard such a roar of anger and fury that his eyes flew open to determine the danger. What he saw he would never have imagined. Before the bed he was kept on stood a tall, black-haired man. He wasn’t human though and he wasn’t elvish. He wasn’t a monster either… or was he? He wore black robes, and his eyes… Legolas made a sound of astonished terror, glad that the dark lord was no longer touching him.

It couldn’t be anyone else. But then Sauron looked at him. “Which one was it?” he demanded suddenly, and Legolas was at a loss for what the dark lord wanted from him. He swept one long arm gracefully back, leading Legolas’ gaze to two uruk-hai who stood guarding the room. Legolas saw the monster, and again when he tried to scream, what came from his mouth was a mix between a wail and a moan.

The dark lord noted his reaction, and turned to the two large orcs again. Legolas closed his eyes and fell asleep again to escape. The next time he awoke, he saw that the dark lord was seated in a chair at some distance from the bed, watching him.

“Where am I?” he asked nervously. Sauron only smiled.

“Where I want you to be.” Legolas digested that piece of information slowly. He tried to shrink back when Sauron stood and walked over to the bed.

“You will become more aware from now on,” Sauron advised him. “If one of these,” he said, indicating the guards again, “does anything besides watch you, you will tell me.” Legolas nodded his head furiously, sneaking a quick glance at the orcs who stood by the door. He felt that warm hand against his belly again, and then he knew why Sauron had become angry.

“Oh, please! No!” he choked out, feeling so sick at the thought of it he wished he would faint again. Sauron looked at him.

“I cannot remove it yet, and I will not,” he stated matter-of-factly. Legolas squeezed his eyes closed in utter disgust as he felt the hand move away from him. “The other child is doing well.”

“Please…” he sobbed in shame and mortification for what was happening to him. Sauron just ignored his plea.

“I will be back to check on you again tomorrow.” Then he was gone, and Legolas was alone with the guards, only this time, there was to be no escape in reverie. Whether he wanted it or not, he was waking up.

 

 

Translations:

_mûl nín_ – my slave  



	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Two

Legolas was awake, but he chose to lay still with his eyes closed. Being wakeful after Sauron had left the day before, Legolas had watched the large orcs who guarded him as closely as they watched him. Only when it became clear that they weren’t going to come near him did he begin to investigate.

At first when he had tried to stand up he had fallen back onto the bed helplessly, his legs so unused to carrying his weight that it was as if he had forgotten how to stand. But he persevered, and it was with a kind of glad relief that he gained his feet after a couple of similar attempts. Still, he was unsteady, and he used the wall to walk around the room, one eye watching the orcs to make sure they didn’t move.

There was a name for them – what was it? He had known it, he was certain, but the long period of enforced unawareness had made his mind sluggish and lazy. Uruk-hai. Legolas nodded to himself. That is what they were. He whimpered suddenly, afraid, remembering what was inside him, but then he deliberately turned his mind away from the shocking truth of his predicament. Still hugging the wall, he made his way around the room.

There wasn’t much to see.

The small windowless room was at least a little brighter than before; the candles Sauron had kept lit now extinguished in favour of torches. There were four – one for each wall, and in a box Legolas found replacements, along with a few new candles.

There was a simple wooden chair, which Sauron had used, and the bed he had been kept prisoner on. Under the bed was what could loosely be described as a chamberpot. That was all. Legolas took a torch and some tinder from the box and painstakingly carried it back to the bed with him. Despite his nakedness it wasn’t cold, the stone floor was warm under the soles of his feet and the walls were warm to the touch. It was so unusual, Legolas at least had never known such a thing, and he wondered what it could portend.

He collapsed tiredly on the bed, and lay still for a while, holding the torch ready to be lit in his arms in case those on the wall should go out. The uruk-hai terrified him as Sauron didn’t, and he didn’t want to be alone with them in the dark.

Now, an indeterminable amount of time later – Legolas only knew that he had slept for a period – Sauron was back. He assumed the amount of time that passed to have been a day, since the dark lord had said he would be back tomorrow. Legolas ignored him.

“I know you are awake,” said Sauron in a rich, deep voice. Legolas chose to ignore it. He felt the torch being taken from his arms, and he offered no resistance, in the hope that it would encourage Sauron to believe he really did sleep. Opening his eyes a fraction, he watched the dark lord take the torch and tinder back to the box at the opposite side of the room. Then he suddenly turned and made eye contact. Legolas sighed in a kind of defeat and sat up a little on the bed as Sauron laughed quietly.

“How are you feeling?” he enquired directly as he took his seat – the chair Legolas had noted earlier – and he heard himself answering before he could stop to think about it.

“I am weak and feeble. It is difficult to stand up.” Legolas covered his mouth with his hand in astonishment as Sauron stood and walked over to the bed again.

“How long have I been here?” he blurted out in a fearful voice as Sauron came closer to him.

“Lie still while I examine you, Legolas,” Sauron commanded, and to his shame he felt himself reclining on the bed, offering himself up to whatever Sauron wished to do to him.

At first, the dark lord rested one hand against his belly, nodding in satisfaction at whatever he sensed while Legolas moaned at the reminder of what his body was being used for. Then, he was pushed onto his side, and he heard the dark lord take something from his robes before a finger, lubricated with some greasy substance, entered him from behind. Legolas gasped out, the sore feeling only subsiding after a couple of moments, and by then, Sauron was already withdrawing from him.

“Very good!” he said then, and Legolas shuddered. “The danger has passed. For now.” Legolas turned onto his back again and looked up at the dark lord. He felt relieved to be alive, and to hear that he wasn’t going to die even if something unspeakable was being done to him.

“How long?” he asked again, pleading, as Sauron sat on the edge of the bed. He seemed to think for a moment.

“All told. Give or take a day or two,” he began carelessly, “around two months.” Legolas felt his face grow pale. Two months?! He remembered the drug that made him sleep, and he couldn’t quite countenance it. It was so long! He thought of his family and friends, and heard himself negating Sauron’s words in soft whispers.

“They have almost given up searching for you,” Sauron told him simply, as though he knew what Legolas’ thoughts were. Then he gasped when he felt Sauron’s hand caressing his member, and everything else flew from his mind.

“What? Are you… doing?” he managed, shocked beyond belief as the hand began to stroke and pull at him. Too late, Legolas thought to push Sauron’s hand away from him, but he wasn’t strong enough. “Stop!”

“Does it distress you?” Sauron asked, a slight smile on his lips as he continued to touch. Legolas blushed in humiliation as his body began to respond to Sauron, and he moaned wretchedly.

“Yes,” he hissed, and suddenly the hand was gone. Legolas moaned again in a mixture of relief and longing.

“You will find that I reward honesty, Legolas,” he said then, looking down as he stood up from the bed. Legolas looked up at him helplessly. “I have some rules. But don’t worry – they are quite simple.”

“One. You will not leave this room unless I take you from it myself. Two. You will not do anything to endanger the life you carry, or yourself. Three. You will obey me without question. Is all of that clear?”

Legolas trembled at the way Sauron spoke to him, and he nodded once. “What will happen to me?” he asked as Sauron turned and strode away, but there was no answer to his question, and soon he was alone again.

He wept for a while as the magnitude of his situation finally began to sink in, and he thought of his father and brothers. _They have almost given up searching for you._ “I’m here, Daeron,” he whispered, knowing that if anyone could track him down, then it would be his eldest brother. “Don’t stop looking.” He cried until his tears were gone, and then he simply lay on the bed, not bothering to move, even his fear of the uruk-hai who guarded him fleeing in the face of his hopeless plight.

* * *

Legolas awoke alone. For long minutes he lay on the bed, weeping. But eventually he quieted, and that was when he realised what being alone meant. No one was watching him. There were no orcs, no uruk-hai – he had been left to his own devices.

The chance for escape was too tempting to resist, and Legolas stood carefully, thankful that today, it was not so difficult as before. He tottered at first, without the safety of the wall to cling to, but soon enough his muscles remembered how to hold him and he walked freely across the room, regaining a little of the grace his kind was known for.

The door stood slightly open, and Legolas made his way over to it cautiously. There was the chance that guards were waiting on the other side of the door. In that case, everything would be lost; but he would rather they didn’t even see his hope.

No guards. Legolas breathed a sigh of relief. So relieved he was, that as he crept out of the room naked, and made his way down the corridor, it never even occurred to him to wonder why he was alone…

* * *

Panic was beginning to set in. So many corridors he had walked down; he was starting to despair. He didn’t know if he would ever find a way out, and he knew that the longer it took, the more chance he would be found wandering, or discovered missing from his cell.

The caution that he had when he first left his prison now utterly deserted him, and he began to run through the disturbingly empty halls. The sound of his footfalls on the stone echoed back at him, making him uneasy. Even pregnant, he was quick and nimble on his feet, the fear spurring him on, and eventually he came to a door. Light shone through the cracks – real light – and the heaviness lifted from his soul. Perhaps he would get out of here, after all!

He felt a small tremor of fear as he opened the door; sure that finally the orcs would be waiting for him, but there were none. No, it was not orcs that made him catch his breath in despair; it was the sight before him.

A black, barren, empty landscape stretched out before his eyes, ending further away than he could see. This was not Dol Guldur. He had been imprisoned and tortured, that was true. But through it all, he had always believed he was closer to the Greenwood than this. An awful feeling of homesickness filled him as he began to pick his way across the dry, rocky ground. He stumbled once or twice; there was a heat hanging over the land that made his eyes water and the burning air settled on his lungs like thick smoke, making him gasp. In hopelessness he flung himself on the ground. What chance was there of ever leaving here? This was why the guards were nowhere to be seen. He would die if he tried to escape this way. He didn’t exactly know where ‘here’ was, but it stretched on forever.

Just when he had given up all hope and was resigned to waiting for the orcs that would soon come and take him back, he heard something familiar. Something that sounded like home…

He followed the whispering sound until he came to a vision in the bleak wastes. Trees. His soul sang to see them. Woods, and wild flowers! He ran to the first of them with new confidence, certain that they would hide him from the enemy. As he drew nearer though, the song of the trees suddenly seemed full of shadow. He stopped, uncertain, but there was really nowhere else to go. He stepped underneath the leafy canopy, into the cool darkness, and the welcoming feeling of green.

He stopped again for the briefest moment in trepidation, remembering his feeling that there was a shadow hanging over the forest, but nothing seemed out of place. He must have been mistaken. Breaking into a joyful run, he touched the bark of the trees as he passed them, sending them his hope and his relief. // _Hide me… keep me safe…_ // A small spark of his former self came back to him after all the darkness – he was Legolas again here and now, and he would fight to keep his freedom. He was exhilarated, dodging through the trees, but gradually he became aware that the wood was for some reason stopping him from proceeding. His direction changed until he knew without a doubt that he was heading back the way he had come.

Why? In an annoyance that was half-despairing, and half-playful, he stopped and leaned against a nearby tree to catch his breath, his back to the trunk. Only when he stopped and listened to the silence did he notice for the first time what was so strange about this wood. There was something missing – the sound of life. There was no birdsong; no humming insects. In fact, there were no animals at all. Disquieted, he leaned against the tree, trying to hear the explanation in its song, for surely there was a reason.

And this too he had missed during his captivity; the smell of the wood. He closed his eyes while he listened and breathed in the scent of summer on the leaves, inhaled the rich smell of the earth. Familiar feelings of the Greenwood came to him; the wild dark, the quiet secrets of the undergrowth, the magnificence of a forest and the trees such patient, silent overseers. But then he felt something he didn’t like – the tree he was close to felt a great loneliness, spoke of centuries without seeing life. Indeed, it seemed that these woods had forgotten the world. They sang to him in the way that trees had; the rustling of leaves, and the creaking of branches. Despite the sadness of the wood, Legolas smiled. They wanted to know where he had come from.

He felt leaves brush against his face, sensed the fragrance of blossom on the air. Long, cool grass moved around his feet, caressing his ankles. It was like a siren song to the lost wood-elf, and he gladly let himself fall into it. // _How did you come to be here?_ // He listened, and although he understood the need, considering the emptiness of the wood, what he heard made him apprehensive. He shook his head to clear it, perhaps it was the feel of the words in his head which were making him dizzy; he had been locked up inside for far too long. He listened again:

_Stay with us… we have been alone, and lonely… Sing for us… silence is death…_

He pondered the lifeless state of the forest, silently asking, and in a flash he envisioned centuries upon centuries of stillness and quiet. For the trees, such natural observers of life, long ages where nothing changed except for them, where nothing made a sound except the breeze through the leaves. Trees spent their lives watching and listening to others; this unnatural, dead, still silence was already unbearable to him. How long it must take for the days to pass here, let alone the years. Legolas shivered suddenly in comprehension – this was a kind of hell. He knew without being told that even the weather was controlled here, but the truth was given to him regardless. No storms to disturb the unwanted peace, a heavy mist instead of the drama of rain. These woods had no secrets to keep, no memories to treasure; even their limited consciousness must be made insane by it.

Someone had kept the forest alive in this state of non-existence. But who? And for what purpose? The answer came as a memory, a reply to a similar question asked in delirium, the remembered words delighted and dark; “Because it amuses me.” The full horror of where he was struck him and evil enfolded him in its black grip, crushing his spirit. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, and he saw the wood for what it was – an exercise in control for the dark lord’s entertainment. It might look like home, but it wasn’t. And the trees might be familiar, but he didn’t know them. Trees and the wild places they inhabit should never feel so strange to one of his kind, he thought with a touch of bitterness.

No wonder they wouldn’t let him leave. With his arrival he had surely woken them up, and his stomach lurched at the thought. He didn’t understand what was happening here, and he felt uncertain when he thought about what might happen to him. He should never have ventured in here, he should have known better, and heeded the warning; these woods did belong to the enemy after all.

He opened his eyes only to find small tendrils of ivy curling around his wrists. He moved his hands away quickly and tore his feet free of the grass that had wrapped itself around his ankles, holding on to him. Refusing to admit his fear to himself he backed away from the tree, looking around him at the wood.

Protectively, he rested his hands over his belly, remembering too late Sauron’s instructions to him. The wood almost seemed to draw back in shock at his action, and the silence deepened. The atmosphere became slightly threatening and the air felt colder than before. The silence was oppressive and heavy, longing to be broken. He could hear his own breathing, his own heartbeat too loud – because _they_ could sense it.

He moved in a circle with his arms outstretched, trying to watch all of the wood at the same time, ready to bolt at any sign of movement or danger. A branch creaked above him and he jumped, looking up only to see the tortured branches of a large oak, unmoving. The feeling of such fear in the middle of a wood was so alien to him that he almost laughed, but he didn’t dare. Instead, the fear continued to grow, expectant of something – but what? What could trees do? He had the unnerving impression that the forest was closing in upon him. Every time he looked around, the trees behind him appeared a little closer than before.

Deciding to move through the wood, whatever the truth of its nature might be, he turned and stopped immediately when he found himself facing an ancient oak. This wasn’t imagination – it hadn’t been in that position before. He began to back away, and bumped into another of the ‘unmoving’ trees. Before he could jump away in his panic, the ivy that had held him earlier was back. He pulled his hands away, but the living bonds were stronger now. He heard himself whimper in terror and he lost his reason as he fought mindlessly against the imprisonment. He would not be made helpless again!

After some moments of fruitless struggle, during which more and more ivy and vines had grown to hold him in his place, Legolas stopped to gather his strength. Trapped, he was unable to stop himself weeping bitter tears of frustration. Somehow, this was worse than Sauron’s prison. Here, in the embrace of the wood, he felt horribly betrayed. He heard the song of the wood again, and this time the hidden meaning was clear.

_Stay with us (we won’t let you leave)… we have been alone for too long… Sing for us (we would hear you scream)… silence is death…_

Legolas moved his hands again, and caught his breath when he felt a sudden, sharp pain. He looked and found that numerous brambles also held his wrists. Their thorns were catching at his flesh with every movement he made. He remembered all he had endured only to end up here, and it seemed eerily similar. Bound, helpless, forced to endure pain. He moaned plaintively, and he sensed the forest all around him, listening, drinking in the sound of his despair. The sensation of being watched and enjoyed as a form of entertainment made him move again. The thorns tore at his sensitive skin, and time slowed down. He watched, fascinated, as a drop of his blood fell, managing to shine wetly even in the half-light. It landed on a leaf, sounding like the first heavy drop of rain before a storm. The contrast between red and green was striking, and he felt the reaction of the wood to this new development. The brambles tightened around his arms painfully. He stayed as still as possible, understanding the danger. They would tear him limb from limb for the sound of his screams and the colour of his blood.

He closed his eyes to calm himself, and immediately the link between him and the forest was stronger. Despite what was happening, he again felt the instinctive bond of his kind towards nature and growing things. Even such a forest as this, twisted and insane, was at its heart the same as any other wood. The familiarity of his position as a prisoner made him remember his experiences, and too late he realised he had passed his memories on to the life around him. Their grip softened until it was once again bearable, but now the purpose changed.

He held his breath when he felt new touches over his body, refusing to open his eyes and acknowledge what was happening. Why would they do this, he thought suddenly, they couldn’t ‘feel’ him; they had no real sense of touch. One of the creeping vines brushed across a nipple, and he cried out, startled. The sound carried in the stillness, breaking the dreadful silence, and then he knew what this was about. He closed his lips tightly against his sighs, determined not to encourage this, but in his mind he remembered being forced to feel pleasure against his will and knew he would not be able to fight for long. His thoughts and his sense of failing resistance passed into the consciousness of the wood, and the touches became more insistent. He struggled again, despite the pain from the thorns; he had to get free somehow.

“No…” he pleaded finally, when he felt the lightest touch on his soft member, but the nightmare continued, only encouraged by the sound of his voice. Soft, stroking touches that almost seemed to belong to fingers… His body tried to move into the touch, causing more drops of blood to fall from his wrists and arms. The faint smell of copper made him aware of it, and he tried desperately to stay still as the intimate torment of his body went on.

After a while he couldn’t hold back, and he moaned into the stillness, regretting every sigh that passed his lips. This was _wrong_. He opened his eyes and cried out in shock at the sight. A criss-crossing pattern of vines and ivy covered his entire body. They had grown around him, making him part of the wood, seeming to absorb his separate identity. Nothing more than a plaything, he was held perfectly still as the vines stimulated his nipples and hardness. He was helpless once more, at the mercy of things which should be friends or protectors, and this time it would be endless. Legolas screamed as the vines covered his open eyes, and the sound reverberated through the entire forest, breaking the centuries’ old monotony at last.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Three

The dark lord stood in the centre of his forest – he made a tall and imposing figure. As if he knew the woods were waiting for him to move, or to speak, he stood perfectly still and quiet, looking down on the elven Prince at his feet. Legolas was curled up unconscious on the ground beneath a giant sycamore; dry, soundless sobs making his entire body quiver. His gaze took in the deep, bleeding scratches on Legolas’ arms and legs, and then he glanced around at the wood, a cruel, amused smile on his lips.

“In another time and place, he and his kind belong to you.” Sauron’s voice was deep, powerful, and surprisingly warm. The sound of it almost robbed his words of their mockery – but not quite.

The forest processed the sentiment slowly, and then suddenly its hunger for company increased so much that it could be felt in the air. The trees loomed menacingly above the two figures in the centre of the wood. As before, not one of them seemed to move, and yet somehow they were blocking out more of the light. A hollow, empty darkness descended, and for a moment or two Sauron allowed it.

The trees crowded around their Master, each one looking as if it had always been there. There was no longer a path out, and the strange feeling of intense expectancy returned. But at that point Sauron simply raised his hand, and the vines and brambles which had started to creep silently from the cover of the trees stopped just short of his feet. The darkness and the threat passed, held in check by magic, leaving behind an ages old resentment and malignancy. But now Sauron turned his attention back to Legolas, who began to stir.

* * *

Legolas awoke to the sound of a familiar voice that filled him with dread. For a few moments he didn’t open his eyes, but then he sensed his injuries and they flew open of their own accord. The first thing he saw was Sauron’s feet, almost touching him. Legolas didn’t look up, but began to move away slowly, taking in his surroundings as he did so. A forest? His eyes widened in amazement. How did he get here? He finally looked to Sauron for an answer as he stood up, but the dark lord was simply watching him impassively, in the same way a spider might watch a fly that is close to its web.

Legolas backed away warily, keeping his eyes fixed on Sauron as the dark lord advanced on him. He felt a tree behind him, and he gasped in shock; his mind was suddenly filled with feelings and images as he remembered everything that had passed before he lost consciousness. He experienced shock at the amount of time he had been held captive again; his panicked escape; his joy on finding the forest, and then… He started away from the tree violently, turning to face this new threat, but a second later he remembered there had been nowhere to go.

He bumped into Sauron, and the dark lord’s arms closed around him possessively, warm and alive, trapping Legolas’ hands at his sides, and pressing their bodies together. He froze instinctively. There was an awful feeling of finality being in his arms like this; it was like being embraced by death, and Legolas shivered. He felt Sauron’s breath on his neck an instant before he felt lips brush softly over his skin. Legolas sighed, unable even to think of stopping it, and he felt those lips curve into a smile as Sauron continued to kiss his throat.

He could feel Sauron’s body heat through the thin material of the robes he wore, and it reminded him of his own nakedness. He felt suddenly exposed and vulnerable, all the more so because they _were_ being watched. In spite of his discouraging stillness, Legolas was uncomfortably aware of Sauron’s growing arousal. The hardness was nudging him, rubbing against him, and all he could think was ‘no’. He said nothing though, desperately wrenching his attention away to think about the forest. Despite what it had done to him he felt a wave of sympathy and empathy for the wood. They were in the same position after all; playthings of the enemy, dominated by his will.

Sauron’s lips moved to his ear and Legolas’ breath caught in his throat. One of the hands that were holding him dropped down to his member and began to coax an erection from him. Skilful fingers, using just the right amount of pressure. Squeezing, pulling, tugging at him. It was indescribable, irresistible. The feeling was everything, and soon Legolas was moaning again, this time for his Master. He was displayed for the forest to see, and every sound he made was swallowed up by the silence like a desert devours the rain. He knew that Sauron was using him to torment the wood, and the thought made his eyes fill with tears, but he couldn’t stop it. He leaned back into the dark lord’s arms, wanting only to forget where he was, but then Sauron whispered to him.

“Everything in this world will fall to me. Did you really think your beloved woods would be any different?” The words were enough to chill his blood, but the voice was so charming, so perfectly confident. Indeed, Sauron made the nightmare sound so predictable and inevitable that Legolas turned his head away, unable to reconcile it.

Sauron’s hand was still caressing him, slowly, torturously, and Legolas was glad for a moment because it stopped him from thinking. He didn’t want to think. He couldn’t imagine the Greenwood having such a fate, being under his control, being like this. Legolas moaned again, and now there was a note of protest in it.

The dark lord laughed softly at his reaction. “Yes,” he continued, and Legolas wanted to raise his hands to cover his ears, but his arms were still trapped. “All will be mine; and you, I promise, shall live to see it.” At this Sauron’s hand left Legolas’ aching hardness, and he couldn’t bite back his cry of dismay. Sauron’s fingers skimmed lightly across his belly. “You _will_ see it, with my child in your arms.”

And there it was. Sauron’s words were irrefutable. He left Legolas with nothing to say, nothing to respond to. This was not a conversation. If he hadn’t been held, Legolas would surely have fallen – was he to spend his immortality as Sauron’s companion? His legs refused to support him anymore and his head fell back onto Sauron’s shoulder. Immediately the dark lord’s lips covered his. Legolas’ lips parted in surprise and Sauron’s tongue pushed into his mouth, probing, tasting. And he couldn’t stop that, in the same way he couldn’t stop Sauron’s hands, in the same way he couldn’t banish Sauron’s words. Persuasive, seductive, a cruel parody of comfort; they tumbled over and over in his mind, refusing to let him be.

Breaking the kiss, Sauron pulled back a little, and Legolas just looked up at him, dazed and confused. His body still screamed for Sauron’s attention, needing the contact again, and Legolas wanted to say 'don’t stop.’ But the sight of the dark lord stole the words from his mind. Something about the gloom and the dead silence suited Sauron. The limited amount of light found his dark eyes, making them glitter. The silence seemed to wait for him to speak. His black hair gleamed softly, and Legolas almost wanted to reach out and touch it. He was dangerous, and a monster, but still he was so dazzling and perfect. So…

“Beautiful,” the dark lord said, licking his lips, and with that the spell was broken.

Legolas came back to his senses when Sauron spoke, and now at last he began to fight. What kind of magic did he have, that he could make a Prince of elves desire him? It didn’t matter. He broke free of Sauron’s grip – too easily – and immediately began to run. He didn’t care that there was nowhere to run to except the forest. He didn’t care that he would more than likely be caught even if he escaped the woods. All he wanted was to get away from Sauron, and the sense of unreality the dark lord brought to his mind.

He heard Sauron speak a word behind him, and then suddenly what had been a clear path before was blocked by a solid wall of trees. He slowed down as he reached them and rested his hands on the trunks of the trees at either side of his head, almost hitting them in his frustration. He swore bitterly, and then stood still for a few moments, catching his breath, listening to his heartbeat slow down, until the terrible predicament of the wood made him want to end the contact. He lifted his hands away, almost in a gesture of peace to the forest, but then Sauron’s hands covered his, holding them in place.

Legolas jumped; he hadn’t realised that Sauron was so close to him, and the trapping of his hands was such an intimate, controlling gesture that he felt the strange desire return. Again he felt the hot breath on his neck, the dark lord’s body-heat behind him – this time they were only _almost_ touching. Something about being close to him clouded Legolas’ thoughts, and made it difficult to be aware of anything else. Sauron tutted in mock displeasure at his attempted escape, and Legolas felt his heart miss a beat. The fear passed through the palms of his hands into the consciousness of the wood, and he was horribly aware of it enjoying his experience in some vicarious way. What was worse, on some level it was nearly natural. He didn’t know what he expected Sauron to say, but it wasn’t what came next, the words heavy with a threat he didn’t understand.

“I keep you from fading. _My magic_ keeps you from fading. Do you understand yet what that means?” While Sauron spoke his voice changed direction as though he were looking Legolas up and down; he felt the skin prickle on his neck and back as if he could feel the dark lord’s gaze moving over him. Sauron continued, and Legolas’ fear grew.

“Do _you_ know why elves fade?” Sauron asked rhetorically, his words full of cold delight. The hands moved away from his and Legolas let go of the bark instantly, wanting to be free of them both. Suddenly his hands were slammed back down painfully, and Legolas kept them still this time when Sauron left him.

He stayed in his place, desperate to look around, but unwilling to. He expected Sauron to touch him again with every passing moment, and the sense of tension continued to build with every second it didn’t happen. When Sauron did return he was still unprepared for it, and he cried out when he felt the touch of the dark lord’s hands on his shoulders. The hands moved over the taut muscles of his back firmly, almost seeming to stroke him, and he shook in fear.

Sauron hushed him, and one hand continued to move reassuringly over his back, while the other moved lower. Sauron pushed one of his fingers into Legolas ruthlessly, and he cried out again, this time in pain. Sauron ignored him, and before long there were two fingers inside him, stretching him.

“Please, no…” Legolas murmured automatically, aware that the forest too would enjoy his pain when the dark lord took him. Already he could sense the gathering dark, the disturbing feeling of being watched.

He cried out suddenly, and Sauron chuckled, having found the part of him that made him moan. He played with Legolas for a while, and just before the point where Legolas would have found an end, Sauron’s other hand reached around and gripped the base of Legolas’ hard member firmly. His fingers continued to massage that place inside him, over and over again, drawing pleasure from him the way a vampire draws blood.

“When you shiver and tremble like this; when you beg for me to stop,” Sauron paused for a moment. Legolas hardly heeded the words; he was far past the point where he should have found release. His eyes rolled back in his head, he breathed only to voice his pain every time Sauron’s fingers moved inside him. Rhythmic, relentless, matching his heartbeat. His entire existence was centred on the unbearable sensation – only later did he recall the next dark whisper.

“You make me want to hurt you.”

Then Sauron’s fingers were gone, but in the next instant his hardness was pushing into Legolas, forcing tears to his eyes. In one long, painful push Sauron was completely inside him, only then did he release his cruel hold on the base of Legolas’ member.

The force of his orgasm took Legolas’ breath away, and he almost blacked out. But with every spasm he felt Sauron inside him, dominating, claiming his body. Through his hands he heard all the voices of the forest in his mind, all shouting at once, craving his experience. _We have been so hungry, yes… Feel more… Such a memory means life… Give it to us…_ A part of his soul belonged to the wood, even to this one, and their yearning only intensified what he was feeling. It didn’t matter to them what it was, all that mattered was the pain and the pleasure. Legolas couldn’t deny them, whether he wanted to or not, and he felt every single sensation so keenly that he screamed. It was too much, but not enough. Their voices clamoured for more, and for a second longer he forgot about Sauron, existing for them. After that the voices dimmed in his mind, and he finally felt his longed-for release draw to a close.

He was weak and dizzy. His eyes closed as his hands fell from their place and his head dropped down. He couldn’t support himself; only Sauron’s hands on his hips held him up. He was almost unaware of it when Sauron began to thrust in and out of him brutally. The vital, burning pain of the assault was removed somehow, as if it were happening to someone else. His shoulder was pushed into the trunk of the tree over and over again, jarring him, and the soft skin of his cheek was being grazed and scraped by the bark, but it didn’t even register. Legolas was as relaxed as a rag doll. After some minutes of using Legolas this way Sauron came, deep inside him, and at that Legolas finally gave voice to a long, low moan.

When Sauron left him, Legolas crumpled into a heap, wanting only to lose consciousness. His hands curled around the cool grass, but there was no comfort. He was surrounded by strangers, who had enjoyed his pain as surely as Sauron. Once more he felt betrayed, hadn’t he given them everything? Then a hand was pulling savagely at his hair, forcing him back to his feet. He stood and faced Sauron wordlessly with a quiet, defiant dignity. He looked into Sauron’s eyes, and he wanted to die. But the dark lord’s voice came again, to take away his hope.

“You will not fade,” he said, as if reading Legolas’ thoughts, “and yet neither will your mind break as a man’s would. For you there are no escapes, and no limits.” Now he did cover his ears, he couldn’t bear to hear the truth spoken, and yet still he was so enamoured by the rich, deep, musical sound of Sauron’s voice, that when the dark lord moved his hands away he was almost glad.

“You will never leave me; you are mine. Tomorrow all of this will be but a memory, and you will awaken unharmed again, ready for me,” he said, almost wonderingly, reaching out to touch Legolas’ bruised and bleeding cheek. Legolas caught the tone, and his soul shrank away from the pure, sadistic glee in his tormentor’s eyes; it made his next quiet words all the more terrifying. “Legolas…” he said, savouring the sound of his name. “When Middle-Earth has forgotten all about the lost elf Prince of the Greenwood, you will still remember, and desire your freedom as much as you desire me.”

Legolas listened in growing horror to the future Sauron described, unaware of the tears that were now flowing freely down his face. Sauron brushed them away gently with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact. “ _That_ is beautiful,” he whispered fervently. “Now do you understand?”

And still there were no words. Trembling, Legolas reached out to touch the black hair that gleamed so in the darkness, and Sauron smiled. A beautiful smile he had, it almost robbed his words of their cruelty – but not quite.

Legolas closed his eyes and licked his lips; a part of him screamed out in revolt at what he was about to do, but he ignored it. He opened his eyes again to find Sauron watching him. He moved closer, inclining his head to press his lips against the dark lord’s. Everything in the world seemed to hold its breath; the darkness intensified until the part of the forest they were standing in was as black as night. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but there was something to be had in encouraging the madness, something he knew about but had forgotten. Hands came to tangle in his hair as Sauron took control of the kiss. It wasn’t sweet or soothing, even in his gentleness Legolas could almost taste Sauron’s cruelty and viciousness. But Sauron was beautiful, he was desirable, and as he let himself fall under the spell again, inviting it, Legolas finally found what he sought. Oblivion.

“Your life before, and everything you are has fallen,” Sauron mused when he broke the kiss. Legolas began to shake his head, but then Sauron kissed him again and he devoted himself to it with the same single-minded desire for oblivion as before, moaning as Sauron plundered his mouth intimately. He wound his arms around Sauron’s neck, standing on tiptoe to do so, and Sauron’s lips left his to brush over his jaw softly.

“We are defined by our relationships, Legolas,” he whispered between more of the tender kisses. “Who you were – that Legolas is gone.” He still couldn’t help but respond to Sauron, and yet with every word and every touch of his lips, it felt as though his life was being stolen away. And it had been stolen from him. Quietly, while he slept, everything that mattered to him had gone, and he had awoken as someone else.

“The son, the brother, the Prince… these things do not matter anymore.” It was the most hurtful thing, to have all of his thoughts – all of his _existence_ – put into so few eloquent words. Because who was he without the things that defined him? Here, he was even far from the forest of his home, and while he might have said before that he would retain his sense of self, it was rapidly becoming apparent that he didn’t have the strength of character he supposed – not when everything he knew was gone. Here, even something so simple as sunlight was denied him.

“Why?” he asked brokenly as Sauron licked at his neck seductively, making him shiver in arousal even after everything he had been through. “Why did you let me wake up?”

Suddenly the dark lord grinned, and his fingers skimmed over Legolas’ cheek, gathering the tears so that he could rub them between his fingers. “Do you really need to ask?” Legolas shook his head slowly at the delight in his tormentor’s eyes and shuddered. “Besides, I dislike being forced to kill my own soldiers. Admittedly, he took longer to die than he did to create…” Sauron’s voice trailed off, as if he were thinking. “They were elves once, the uruk-hai. Did you know that?” Legolas closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to ignore the horror that thought inspired in him.

“Don’t,” he pleaded, but Sauron carried on mercilessly.

“He probably saw what _he_ had lost in you,” the dark lord reflected, seemingly to himself, while Legolas shivered in terrible comprehension. “A monster who is aware of his pain.” Sauron smirked. “That’s really quite poetic.”

At last, Legolas saw how truly vicious and cold the dark lord was, and he staggered backwards, a hand to his lips, remembering how he had invited the madness upon him. He would have fallen, but he found his arms were gripped by two of the uruk-hai. He cried out in alarm, and yet as they took him back, he found himself scrutinising them. They didn’t look at him, just carried out their commands efficiently and with as little fuss as possible. Was it really true? Was there a soul in there somewhere, aware and sentient of what Sauron had stolen? He shivered again, and tried to ignore the thought – it was too hideous, and yet it seemed fitting from what he knew of Sauron…

* * *

The dark lord stood alone in the centre of his forest, once more dressed and immaculate. He closed his eyes and breathed in the cool air deeply. The silence did indeed suit him. He let out the breath in an audible sigh of contentment. When he opened his eyes he looked around at the wood. That same amused smile was back, and he hesitated for a moment as if debating whether or not to speak. The world waited. Then, with a mocking bow, and a flurry of black robes he walked away, out of the wood, leaving the trees to their lifeless torment once more.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Four

By the time the orcs had taken Legolas back to the room he had been living in for so long, he was exhausted. The escape and what he had endured since was too much for his weakened body to handle, and he curled up on the bed, his limbs trembling uncontrollably.

He slept then, he didn’t know how long for, and for the first time in his life – Legolas dreamed. Of course, he had dreams before, but the nature of reverie made any dreams meaningful and understandable. These dreams were different. He still knew he was dreaming, but they seemed more of a random collection of images than anything else. He ran through darkened stone halls, chased by beautiful monsters that accused him of stealing. At one point he came upon a room full of twisted trees that wept blood, and that was when he decided to wake up.

It surprised him to have to open his eyes, and he realised he had slept with his eyes closed for the first time too. Still, it didn’t make the darkness any clearer to him. While outside, in the woodland of his home, his keen eyes could make use of the moon and starlight. Here, there was no light to see by at all. All that was constant was the warmth, and with a startled jump of fright, Legolas realised that someone was laid beside him in the dark.

“Your dreams were quite interesting,” a warm, amused voice noted. Legolas shook his head, but he relaxed again, realising that it was Sauron who lay with him and not one of the uruk-hai. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it – for surely _he_ was more dangerous – and yet it didn’t seem that way on the surface of things. As much as he wanted to be more afraid of Sauron, he simply wasn’t.

“You disobeyed me.” Legolas lay on his back in terrified stillness, hearing something new at last in Sauron’s words. It made him want to whimper and beg and run and hide. “You endangered your life, and that of my child.” Sauron was angry, and with every word his voice became a little colder, so that Legolas shivered as though he could feel it. “You left this room alone.” He paused. “Do you suppose my fortress to be somewhere one can just ‘wander’?” he chastised.

“I’m sorry –” he tried to say, but Sauron spoke over him effortlessly.

“There are more fearsome monsters that walk these halls than uruk-hai. Consider the orcs the fairest of my servants.” Legolas shuddered in revulsion, but didn’t speak again. “I believe that after your wild, wilful disobedience, a punishment is in order.” Legolas didn’t dare to speak, and in fact he suspected he couldn’t even if he wanted to. The dark lord was threatening him, and the scale of the danger he was in took his breath away.

“There are tortures, Legolas, that would ensure you never go against my wishes again. You would serve me single-mindedly forever. Of course, they would change you, and others would fear to gaze upon you. With what remains of your mind, you would sense that, and kill those whom you used to love in frustrated anger and fury. Is that an appropriate punishment, do you think?”

Legolas only whimpered in answer, seeing in his mind’s eye the uruk-hai, who Sauron had told him used to be elves. The dark lord laughed softly. “Of course, I cannot consider anything as drastic as that… yet. You have something valuable that I will not endanger even to ensure your co-operation. But some kind of punishment is definitely called for, wouldn’t you say?”

The last words hadn’t even entered Legolas’ head, and he still trembled in petrified horror at the suggestion he would become like them. He knew there was another question though, and quite suddenly he found himself wanting to beg for mercy. “No,” he whispered, his fear such that he couldn’t be sure Sauron had heard him. But he had.

“You dare to try and refuse me my entertainment?” With that statement Sauron moved on the bed and Legolas tried to scramble back as Sauron moved fluidly to sit astride him, trapping him. He rested his hands on the bed at either side of Legolas’ head and looked deeply into his eyes. Legolas couldn’t breathe. “Do you know how lucky you are that my child is inside you?” Sauron asked, his eyes full of slowly burning anger, and Legolas couldn’t help but whimper. At last he comprehended that he wasn’t going to be changed, and the dark lord’s actions reawakened the desire he had felt earlier. He was only aware of Sauron now. The dark lord moved his head closer and brushed his lips against softly Legolas’ cheek before whispering into his ear. “I would have you begging for my forgiveness for so long that your voice would leave you. You would forget how to stand on your feet before I was done.”

Legolas trembled at the words, more frightened of his own treacherous desire than the threat, and Sauron moved back to look into his eyes again. “You shake and tremble, but be honest, Prince. Isn’t that exactly what you want?” Sauron asked knowingly, as if he were reading Legolas’ mind.

Before he could reply, Sauron’s lips claimed his, and he couldn’t stop himself responding to that kiss. He gave everything that was demanded of him and more, losing himself and his thoughts again. He was almost grateful, but when it was over he remembered what Sauron wanted with him, and how everything he loved had been stolen away. All of his questions began with one word.

“Why,” he whispered, not knowing that he had spoken aloud. Indeed, he only realised it when Sauron replied to him, his words as mocking as ever.

“Because it amuses me to see you, a Prince of elves, debased and humiliated. It amuses me to watch as you lose your grace and dignity.”

At this Legolas felt an emotion he had almost forgotten – anger. He remembered giving in, and the paltry promise of oblivion that came with it – and he knew it wasn’t enough. Sauron would always be playing with him, the same way he played with the forest, and in his anger, not caring anymore what it might mean to make the dark lord furious, he pushed Sauron away from him with all his strength and jumped up to run from the dark, unguarded room into the feeble light of the corridor outside.

He was unnerved by the sound of the dark laughter that followed him, and the called out promise.

“Run, little Prince. When you stop running I will find you. Let us see how far you get this time.”

And Legolas did run. He ran through the same maze of halls and corridors he had encountered previously. Without wanting to, he remembered the uneasiness he felt then, and it returned to him now. He remembered what Sauron had said about his servants, and it spurred him on to run faster. Some of the halls he ran through were too large to be so empty, and his imagination tried to convince him he wasn’t really alone. Several times he thought he saw movement but when he looked there was nothing. His relief was almost as strong as his disappointment.

He ran for a long time. He didn’t bother to search for a way out this time – he already knew it was pointless. But maybe there was a place somewhere for him to hide, at least for a while, until he could figure out what to do next.

He entered a particularly large hall – when he looked he couldn’t see to the end of it. It was large enough to have several stone pillars supporting the ceiling, and it was dark. No torches were lit in here, and yet there was a little light, maybe from a single window high above. He looked up and suddenly felt dizzy when he realised he couldn’t see the ceiling either.

He walked slowly, trying to keep to what he thought was the centre of the room. The absence of perceptible boundaries made him feel as though he was lost in a desert, or at sea. As he reached what he considered might be the middle of the great hall he slowed down, and then stopped. An indescribable, eerie fear began to prey on him, and he shivered. Again he saw movement from the corner of his eye, but when he peered through the darkness he saw only one of the stone columns. A flash of movement, this time on the other side of the room. Legolas didn’t look towards it – suddenly he was certain that he didn’t want to see. He swallowed nervously, his mouth so dry that it caused an audible click to sound in his throat – and his heart missed a beat before he realised he had made the noise. He had never been scared of the dark, but there was something about the atmosphere in here that made him wish he had some kind of light with him. The darkness felt sinister and threatening, and who knew what the shadows might be hiding.

His train of thought was broken by the lightest touch on his hair, almost like a gentle breeze. He jumped and looked around him, trying to see through the veil of the dark. He closed his eyes and everything was a thousand times worse. He felt people brush against him, whispering nonsense into his ear as they passed. He opened his eyes again and he was alone. He wondered why it wasn’t cold. Didn’t ghosts come with the cold? The darkness wasn’t cold at all, instead it was too warm, making him struggle for his breath, and thick like a blanket, as if it had physical presence. He realised he was stuck; too afraid to carry on, and too afraid to go back. Something was in here with him. He stopped breathing, straining to hear any kind of sound in the darkness, and that was when he heard a soft, insane giggle. His heart hammered in his chest and he began to tremble. He started to move forward again, trying desperately to ignore the shapes that moved with him on either side of the hall.

From ahead he began to hear soft music playing, and something else – perhaps a quiet singing. He resisted the temptation to look behind him, frightened of what he might see. He had come too far to turn back now.

He finally reached the large door on the other side of the hall without incident, looking only straight ahead, but he was aware of the shapes that moved with him, closing in. He was so relieved that his arm felt heavy as lead when he reached out to the door. The music came from behind the door, but it stopped as he reached out to open it. At the same time the ghosts caught up with him and he felt hands sliding over his back. Cold, lifeless hands, and he whimpered in terror. He turned the handle, refusing to look around and discover his pursuer and tormentor, hoping with all his soul that the door was not locked.

To his relief the door opened, and Legolas almost fell through it before closing it firmly behind him, and leaning against the door with his eyes closed, trying to stay on his feet. He wanted to laugh, but he resisted the temptation, and slowly the feeling passed. It was a few minutes before he recovered enough from his terror to take in his surroundings.

The room he found himself in was much smaller than the hall. It had the same stone walls, and although it was dark here too, there were a least a couple of torches on the walls, throwing their flickering golden light over the stone – and the room’s only occupant.

Legolas felt his heart begin to speed up again as he saw the source of the music he had heard. It was an elf, facing away from him. His deep auburn hair would have argued against it, but it was tucked behind his ears and they were impossible to mistake. Was he real? Legolas wondered, and shivered at the thought that this might be a ghost.

The elf sat cradling a great, golden harp in his arms. His hands were stretched out, his fingers on the strings as if ready to play but he didn’t move. His back was to Legolas; his hair was loose and flowed like silk down his back. Cautiously, Legolas stepped closer, and a single bass note sounded on the harp. A soft cry escaped the elf’s lips at the same time, and Legolas stopped. The hair on his head began to stand up as he watched the ghostly figure. Once more it was completely still. The dust danced on in the musty air, the gloom continued to reign in complete silence, until Legolas doubted that he had heard anything. He stepped forward again, frightened of what he might find when he faced the elf, but unable to resist looking. The bass notes sounded as he moved closer, creeping up the scale in an insidious mockery of Legolas’ fear.

Legolas looked toward the elf sharply at this, and saw his shoulders shaking. He was laughing! Laughing at him! Legolas’ fear vanished and he rushed towards the figure suddenly with a kind of embarrassed anger. He grasped hold of the red hair that hid the elf’s face from his view and turned the elf’s head to look at him. Legolas let go immediately and gasped. Here, in this place, was the most beautiful elf he had ever seen. The dark auburn hair framed a perfectly sculpted face, delicate, but still with an indefinable masculine quality. His eyes were bluer than Legolas’, and deep enough to drown in. But none of this was what made Legolas start in shock. It was the tears. He had not been laughing – the elf was crying.

In puzzlement, Legolas let his glance move over the elf slowly; taking in the softly shimmering garments he wore, that only seemed to reveal more than his nakedness would. He was long of limb and slender. Legolas’ eyes lingered on him, drinking in the beauty like a thirsty man partakes of water. He glanced at the elf’s arms, and then on to his long-fingered hands that still rested on the strings of the harp. His eyes widened suddenly. The elf’s fingers were bleeding. How long had he been playing? Legolas thought, sickened. The blood had left his fingers and run down over the strings, staining them crimson. He looked back into the elf’s eyes in horror, and he found no comfort.

The elf looked back at him in misery, tears of pain continuing to fall down his face. Although he didn’t speak, Legolas had never heard the words ‘help me’ so loudly before. As he reached out to move those mangled fingers from the harp though, he heard a familiar voice call through the darkness behind him.

“Don’t stop, Maglor. I wish to hear you play more, and I’m sure Legolas does too. Now, please me as I have taught you to do.” Legolas turned around to face Sauron as he spoke, realising that the dark lord had followed him here, and he levelled a look of disgust and fury at him, not caring anymore what the dark lord might do. But his resolve crumbled when he again heard the notes of the harp ring out behind him, unable to avoid hearing the pained whimpers that came from the elf Sauron had called Maglor.

The music was strange, like something he had heard before. He tried to place it, but it was impossible; and he knew, really, that he had never heard anything like this. It seemed sad, but then an unexpected note would sound, not entirely discordant, but still not quite belonging. It shouldn’t work, but it did. It was a sound that seemed to suit the background of soft, painful cries that accompanied it, as well as conveying danger and darkness. He looked at Sauron, and somehow he realised that the strange music described him.

He watched, struck motionless, the by now familiar feeling of breathlessness and excited anticipation as Sauron walked towards him – and then past him. Legolas turned in surprise and saw Sauron stroking the hair of the other elf. The dark lord closed his eyes and listened; whether to the music or the cries of Maglor Legolas couldn’t be sure – and then he smiled. Sauron reached out to gently cover Maglor’s hands with his own, stilling them.

“Truly beautiful, Maglor. You may stop now.” Maglor turned to face Sauron and sobbed soundlessly against his chest as Sauron moved his hands away from the harp, pulling the elf to his feet, and looked at them.

Without saying a word he brought those hands down to the elf’s mouth and waited expectantly. Maglor looked up at Sauron as he began to clean the blood from his own fingers with his tongue without a murmur of protest. Legolas watched in a kind of horrified fascination, unable to take his eyes away from the picture in front of him.

When he was done Sauron glanced down and studied Maglor’s hands again. “Look,” he commanded, and the elf obeyed, but now he couldn’t stifle a broken sob when he saw what Sauron wanted him to see. Legolas saw it too. The fingers that had been bleeding and raw from hours, perhaps days, of playing the harp were already healing. Soon there would be no sign of the torture he had undergone, and Legolas felt his heart flip lazily in giddy fear, as the scale of what it meant to be a prisoner here finally started to sink in.

Sauron pulled Maglor close to him and took the other elf’s lips in a demanding kiss as Legolas watched. Maglor was facing away from Legolas, and Sauron’s hands held the elf’s wrists out and away from them both, preventing him from touching. Maglor leaned against the dark lord, seeming to melt into him. Sauron had such presence that next to him the elf looked like a sacrifice.

Suddenly Legolas realised that Sauron was staring straight at him. He was kissing Maglor’s neck, but his eyes looked deep into Legolas’ soul. As he watched, Sauron smiled coldly, and licked a line up over Maglor’s throat and jaw in an unmistakable gesture of ownership. Maglor sighed and let his head fall back, while Legolas gasped. Sauron still looked only at him, and it was clear the message was meant for them both.

Sauron beckoned to Legolas and he walked over to him as if hypnotised. He only had eyes for the dark lord, who commanded his attention easily. He barely registered the sight of Maglor sinking to his knees in front of Sauron, undoing his leather leggings to free the dark lord’s erection with a speed and grace born of practice.

Legolas reached Sauron’s side as Maglor’s lips closed around his hard shaft, taking him deeply into his mouth and his throat. Legolas looked down then, and for a moment the sight of it entranced Legolas; he marvelled at the beauty of the elf on his knees, worshipping the dark lord’s member. With a shock he realised he almost wanted to be in his place.

Sauron moaned and he looked up again, only to be caught by the dark lord’s glittering gaze. He gasped in shock when Sauron’s hand gripped his hair tightly and crushed his lips in a violent kiss. Legolas raised his hands to caress the dark lord’s face as he lost himself, only to have them secured behind his back by Sauron. Unable to touch, he could only lean in close as Sauron took his mouth, filling it with his tongue, reminding Legolas of something else so much that he felt his knees go weak. Sauron moaned into his mouth as his orgasm came closer, and Legolas couldn’t help but wonder what kind of picture they made. It was all he could think about, even when Sauron came with a loud groan and finally released him. He looked at Sauron, and the dark lord smirked as if he knew exactly what Legolas had been thinking. Beautiful.

“Take care of him, and yourself.” Sauron addressed Maglor as he looked at Legolas, and he knew he didn’t understand this, any of it. But Maglor’s next words made him shiver, because it was out of place, and yet it was at the same time exactly right.

“Yes, _Hîr nín_ ,” Maglor said quietly from his place on his knees, licking his lips as he straightened the dark lord’s clothing. Sauron looked away from Legolas for a moment and raised the other elf’s chin to look into his eyes. At Sauron’s encouragement Maglor rose gracefully to his feet again, never breaking the eye contact. There was no fight in his eyes as Sauron waited patiently. Then he lowered his head in long-observed submission.

“Thank you, _Herdir_ ,” he whispered, and Sauron smiled at Maglor as he released them. The dark lord walked away from them both as they watched him. He turned back suddenly and looked at Legolas.

“Remember what happened to the uruk-hai,” Sauron warned him, throwing a meaningful glance at Maglor. Legolas froze and he nodded, understanding the threat. Then they were alone.

They looked at each other in silence. All the questions Legolas wanted to ask fled from his mind when he looked at Maglor again, remembering how he had looked on his knees. Remembering his misery, and how much Legolas had wanted to save him from it.

After a while, Maglor smiled at him, and it chased away the darkness. Legolas smiled back, gladly forgetting where he was for a moment.

“Who are you, _pen neth_?” Maglor asked encouragingly, and Legolas replied without hesitation.

“I am Legolas, youngest son of Thranduil, King of Greenwood.”

“Greenwood?” Maglor looked uncertain. “Thranduil…?” Then he seemed to remember. “Son of Oropher…” he breathed, as it sunk in. “Then you are a Prince?” he demanded suddenly, his eyes full of hope.

“Yes… why?” Then Legolas understood what the hope was for, and his heart sank. “They don’t know where I am,” he confessed, looking away, not wanting to destroy what he saw in Maglor’s eyes, but knowing he had to.

For a moment Maglor’s eyes continued to hold a fevered gleam, as if he were thinking about something. But then Legolas’ words seemed to break through and he closed his eyes for a long moment, swallowing, almost as if he had been expecting it. He sighed quietly in acceptance.

“Well, you already know I am Maglor, son of Fëanor,” Maglor said, watching Legolas’ reaction carefully.

Maglor? Suddenly Legolas realised that he knew of the name. It couldn’t be the same Maglor; he would be millennia old! At that thought another, darker, more frightening one struck him. “How long have you been here?” Legolas asked, already not wanting to know the answer.

He gave Legolas a melancholy smile. “Long enough that it wasn’t always ‘here’. Long enough to see Sauron establish himself in the place of Morgoth. Longer than my life before. Long enough…” He seemed full of sadness suddenly, as if he were thinking about something from his earlier life. Maglor shook his head and began to lead Legolas to the door, taking his hand.

“Come,” he said, briskly.

“No! I can’t! Something is not right in there, Maglor,” Legolas cried, pulling his hand away, remembering what had happened to him before he got in here.

“Of course it isn’t.” Maglor looked back at Legolas, and his next words made him even more afraid. “They are the elves that Sauron couldn’t keep. He imprisons their souls here instead. I can’t tell you their story, I’m afraid. I fear I’ve lost the gift of stories,” he smiled sadly in apology, “and I don’t truly know it anyway.” He explained all this patiently, and sighed softly when he saw that Legolas was still not ready to go with him.

“You look horrified, but these ghosts are no longer what we would call elves, _pen neth_.” Maglor considered his own words for a moment, before adding quietly, “so, who among us is lucky?” He looked at Legolas uncertainly. “You do understand what your future will be, don’t you?”

“I won’t stay here,” Legolas vowed vehemently.

Maglor laughed bitterly. “Yes, I still say that, as he promised I would. But here I am, still alive and aware of every cruelty he inflicts on me. Sometimes…” he sighed. “Sometimes, I almost grow tired,” he said longingly.

“You will find it impossible not to fight at times, but you should avoid going against him, it will give you peace for a while. He enjoys resistance, savours it. He enjoys _twisting_ things…” his voice trailed off and once more Maglor seemed lost in his thoughts. Was it really surprising? Legolas thought not, considering how long he must have been held captive here with only Sauron for company. He shivered.

“I know,” Legolas replied, wanting to give Maglor understanding. But then he found himself thinking of what Sauron had told him of the uruk-hai. He remembered the forest, and how Sauron had twisted and corrupted that. It was all too much; the trees, and now Maglor. Guilt consumed him when he considered the effect Sauron still had on him. He only remembered where he was when he felt gentle hands brushing his tears away.

“Don’t cry… Come,” Maglor encouraged, taking his hand again, and now Legolas complied; he was too tired to fight anymore.

* * *

They faced each other in the bed. Maglor had a room that was not unlike Legolas’ own, only the furnishings were more comfortable. It was less like a cell, and more like a bedroom. Sauron must spend enough time here to want to make it comfortable, he realised. Not surprisingly, there was only one bed, and between them they determined to share it.

It was impossible not to begin to fall in love with the elf a little, despite Sauron’s warning. After eating – he hadn’t realised how hungry and thirsty he was until then – Maglor had bathed Legolas, lingering over washing his hair, taking Sauron’s orders seriously, so seriously that Legolas had needed to flick the water at him. They had fought and laughed until Maglor had held Legolas against the wall, and poured a jug of cold water over him.

It was then that Legolas realised just how much it meant to Maglor to have someone else there. The elf’s eyes had filled with tears even though they were both laughing, and Legolas wanted nothing more than to kiss him, and make the tears go away. But, ever mindful of Sauron, he had simply run away from Maglor, laughing in childish glee when Maglor cornered him.

Then Maglor had stolen a kiss, and Legolas forgot everything, captivated by the thought that this beauty desired him. But a kiss was all it had been. Maglor ended it by laughing at his youthful exuberance and promising to cure him of it at the same time.

It had not all been fun and laughter though. Maglor had a cupboard that contained oil which he begged the uruk-hai for in secret. Maglor instructed Legolas in the use of it, and applying the oil to himself in front of Maglor had been humiliating, especially when he considered what it was for. Maglor even managed to comfort him on that, pointing out that actually preparing himself would deny Sauron the pleasure of hurting him so much.

Eventually all of the necessary things had been done, and now for the first time they were each able to reflect on what this meant. As if independent of thought, their hands reached out to touch gleaming hair, soft skin and red lips. Worshipful touches, each making sure that the other was real. Legolas leaned in to kiss Maglor softly, his hands already moving down, trailing his fingers over the elf’s back…

He stopped in puzzlement when Maglor laughed into the kiss. His laugh was musical, like the tinkling of rain on wild flowers. Blue eyes locked with blue in question and amusement.

“Why are you acting like this with me? What are you rushing for?” Maglor asked quietly. Legolas was suddenly unsure of himself. What _was_ he doing? He pulled back and Maglor followed him, but his hands only reached out to cup Legolas’ face, looking deeply into his eyes.

“We are elves, we have eternity.” Maglor explained patiently, and laughed again when Legolas still regarded him without understanding. “You should be reminding me of this,” he chided playfully, tapping Legolas’ nose with one finger. He touched Legolas’ lips then, and he became serious. “Help me to remember…” His voice was sad suddenly, despite the situation.

Legolas wasn’t sure what Maglor wanted from him, this was entirely new. But his words and obvious longing awoke something in Legolas, something different. He mirrored Maglor’s actions, touching the other elf’s face, giving himself the time to admire the soft skin, the delicate features. All the expectations of others vanished from Legolas’ mind, and soon he found himself lost in admiration. He ran his fingers through Maglor’s hair, fascinated by the way the light made it shine in tones of fire and copper. His fingers traced the delicate lines of his ear, ignoring the sigh that this produced.

He had such beautiful, almost luminous skin. His hand came to rest on Maglor’s neck, where his pulse beat rhythmically in a reminder of life and warmth. Looking up, he found his gaze caught and held by those blue eyes, and he smiled. Now he understood. He lay back on the bed contented just to look for a moment.

Maglor grasped hold of his hand and they lay facing each other for long minutes, enjoying the nearness of each other, savouring the feeling afforded by something so simple as the holding of hands. They seemed to speak to each other without talking; even the intimacy of eye contact was a way of making love to them. This was natural, Legolas thought, and he became sad when he realised it had very nearly been taken away from him.

A single tear fell at the thought of what he had almost become, and Maglor just watched, completely taken with him. They moved closer, so slowly that it seemed almost not to happen. He didn’t know this time when the kiss began, only that it was. Their lips moved without urgency, in the same timeless, patient way as their hands. So many promises they made to each other in that kiss. So many things they told each other. And when it was over Maglor simply looked at him.

“You carry his child,” he said, and his voice was carefully neutral.

The strange mood that had descended on them was lost to Legolas then, and he sighed. “Yes,” he replied, resting his hands on his belly. “And one other,” he added quietly. He turned his face away from Maglor, certain of what was there, but then he felt the elf’s hands come to rest on him, next to his, seeming to touch the life inside him, for it stirred.

“Do not be ashamed, _pen neth_. They are partly you and your line too. How could anything bad come of it?” It was so strange to hear hope spoken aloud that Legolas didn’t immediately recognise it. When he did he looked into Maglor’s eyes again and he saw nothing there to be afraid of.

Instinctively he moved closer to the older elf, needing the comfort he had been denied for so long, and that was when Maglor began to sing. Legolas’ eyes widened.

“You, yes! Now I remember…” he said, but his thoughts were taken away from the realisation by the sound of Maglor’s voice. It seemed he was singing an old, forgotten lullaby to the unborn children. Such a fair voice; Legolas had never heard anything like it, and he only wanted for it never to stop. Maglor’s hand still rested comfortably on his belly, and Legolas yawned as he rested his head on Maglor’s arm, closing his eyes to hear the melody better. He didn’t know when he fell asleep, that gentle voice encouraging him to hopeful dreams.

* * *

Maglor finished his song and looked down on Legolas. The prince’s eyes had opened again when he fell into sleep. Maglor sighed. He was so young, so beautiful, and Maglor was at the same time sorry he was here, and glad. For the first time he allowed himself to voice the thought that had been in his mind since he had seen the Prince.

“I am not alone.” He blinked away the sudden tears that filled his eyes and pulled Legolas closer, needing the contact. He lie awake for a long time, stroking the pale golden hair, wondering what Sauron planned for them. Eventually he slept too, but his dreams were troubled.

Translations:

_pen neth_ – young one  
 _Hîr nín_ – my Lord  
 _Herdir_ – Master  



	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Five

Something was tickling his face. Legolas turned his head away into the pillow, but the feeling followed him. Sighing, he opened his eyes to find Maglor looking down at him, a slight smile on his lips. He was half-sat up in the bed, his weight resting on one elbow. The elf’s auburn hair was dangling down, brushing against his face, and he swatted at it playfully in mock annoyance. Maglor laughed, and Legolas thought he would be happy if that was the first sound he heard every day.

“I thought you’d never wake up,” he teased, sinking down onto the bed beside Legolas and taking him into his arms. They lie together for a few moments, welcoming each other. No need to speak, or really to touch, but it happened anyway. As before it happened without announcing itself. And it didn’t matter how much time had passed for them to be in the position of lovers. Minutes or centuries, it could have been either. Hands moving slowly over muscle and soft skin, lips tasting and teasing each other. Their sighs mingled together, and the sound was as perfect as they were.

Everything about their lovemaking was different. There was no ultimate purpose in either of their minds. What happened, happened slowly, and as a natural progression of events. Legolas found himself teasing the other elf’s nipples with his teeth just to listen to the sounds that Maglor made. He found himself enjoying the reactions of Maglor’s body, the way he arched into Legolas’ touch, the way he laughed and shivered when he was tickled.

And he was not alone. Maglor teased and sweetly tormented him in the same way. They were lost in the sight and the sound of each other, discovering all that could be discovered. Learning the secret places each of them possessed that could reduce them to nothing but sensation and pure pleasure.

There was no ownership in their caresses, no struggle for dominance. Each gave as much as they received; each loved with an undemanding desire that didn’t know the meaning of possession or control. So easy to fall into the magic, so easy to be themselves. If their lovemaking was a little coldly aesthetic, then what did that matter? They were in agreement, and Legolas found himself carried away on a dream, forgetting everything but the way Maglor sighed when he brushed his lips over the soft skin on the inside of his thighs just there. The way he shivered when he ran his tongue over the hardened shaft between his legs, and the way he moaned when Legolas took him into his mouth.

Maglor’s hands held his hair as he moaned an affirmative and rocked up into Legolas’ mouth, and that was when he remembered where he was, and what he was doing.

The magic ended, and Legolas released Maglor abruptly, getting up to sit on the side of the bed with his head in his hands. What was he doing? He remembered Sauron’s threat and suddenly felt guilty for the danger he had put Maglor in. And so when Maglor reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, Legolas couldn’t help but flinch away. He sat by the side of him, and it was impossible to mistake the hurt confusion that flashed in his eyes at Legolas’ reaction.

“I’m sorry. It’s just, I…” Legolas shrugged and let his head fall into his hands again.

“Shh. It’s all right _pen neth_. I think I understand.” And then he felt Maglor’s arms closing around him, promising nothing but everything. It was too tempting, and before he could lose himself again, Legolas drew away violently. He looked into Maglor’s eyes, willing him to understand.

“I can’t be with you like this, you don’t know…” Legolas didn’t know how to explain what had happened to him, or even how to tell Maglor about Sauron’s threat. He sighed desperately.

“He will kill you if I do,” Legolas burst out in misery at Maglor’s questioning glance. He looked away, and he was surprised when he heard the fair elf’s laughter. Those arms wrapped around him again and Maglor sighed.

“He won’t kill me, _pen neth_ , be assured of that, for I have begged him long enough.” He smiled strangely at that. “And whatever he does do, it will be no worse than what I already endure at his hands.”

Legolas looked at Maglor, and he reached out to touch him, wanting to take the elf’s resigned sadness away, but more than that wanting to believe he could have this. “Legolas, I know him,” Maglor continued convincingly. “He has left us here, and he knows exactly what will happen. Probably he has some plan to use it against us in a game of his choosing. But we are alone now, and I would gladly pay the price, whatever it may be, for being with you.” For a long moment they looked at each other in perfect understanding.

Maglor’s smile broke the mood, brought them back to where they were, and he stood up.

“We should have breakfast.”

* * *

Later, after they had eaten and washed, Legolas relaxed against Maglor. The older elf was playing with his hair in a way that made delicious tingles run up and down his spine. He sighed dreamily, while Maglor told him stories of the First Age, sang songs that he knew, and songs that he didn’t. He closed his eyes as Maglor talked soothingly, weaving elaborate braids into his hair, and he could have sworn he was sitting in sunlight at the side of an open window.

At Maglor’s encouragement Legolas told him about the Greenwood, and how it had come to be feared lately by outsiders. He spoke of his father and his brothers, and the escapades they had got up to both as elflings and, more recently, young warriors in training. He made Maglor laugh, and that made him smile. For this one morning Legolas forgot where he was, and perhaps Maglor did too.

As before, Legolas couldn’t have said when their talking ceased and their touches became those of lovers. This time he didn’t hold back, and there were no qualms in his mind when they lie down together. When Maglor finally took him, it was so slowly and with such tenderness that there was no pain. To be this close was a beautiful counterpoint to all he had endured, and they moved together in perfect unison.

Lost in the sensations, he was aware of the exact moment that Maglor became still inside him. Legolas stiffened. There was only one reason Maglor would have stopped, and he whispered it into Legolas’ ear quietly in a way that made a cold shiver travel the length of his spine; “ _Herdir_.”

Keeping his eyes closed, Legolas tried to listen for where Sauron was, but he heard nothing. Suddenly a hand cupped his face, and he refused to open his eyes, not wanting to see. Fear coursed through his veins as he remembered Sauron’s threat the day before.

“I reminded you of my rules, didn’t I, Prince?” Sauron asked him, cold amusement in his voice. Legolas trembled and the dark lord waited for an answer to his question.

“Yes,” Legolas whispered, trying to tell himself that if he didn’t look it wouldn’t really be happening. The hand began to caress his face, and when Sauron spoke his voice was low and threatening.

“Perhaps you didn’t want this,” he considered. “That’s the only reason I can think of for you being here, in his arms.” Legolas couldn’t help opening his eyes then, and he caught his breath when he saw Sauron so close to him, kneeling at the side of the bed. He never quite remembered how desirable Sauron was. His eyes drank in the sight of the dark lord greedily, until Legolas was only aware of him, and it seemed that he must be reaching out to touch him. All he wanted was to bury his face in Sauron’s hair, to breathe in the scent of him. And suddenly he was sure he was there, enfolded in the warm darkness and forgetting his own name. Sauron smiled, and instantly the spell was broken. Legolas was surprised to find he hadn’t moved, and that he hadn’t been in Sauron’s embrace. He looked at the dark lord in confusion, but he spoke to Maglor next.

“Well? Carry on, Maglor. I want to watch the truth in his eyes,” Legolas knew that Sauron was playing a game with him, and he knew it was one he couldn’t win, but he knew he would try anyway.

Maglor moved again, but this time he was not gentle. It was as if he was trying to aid Legolas, and he cried out as he felt Maglor taking him with violence. Sauron looked into his eyes with amusement, fully aware that this was not how it had been before.

“Do you want this, Legolas?” he asked, and then Legolas knew despair. Sauron made it clear that however he answered, Maglor would be punished. He moaned instead, partly from the sudden pain, and because he was frustrated from the no-win situation he was in. He tried to look away from the delight in Sauron’s eyes, but the hand wouldn’t let him go.

“Please,” he almost shouted, wanting an escape, needing to be given one. Sauron looked at him for a moment, and then he smirked.

“Well, we are in a mess here, aren’t we?” Sauron said, enjoying Legolas’ distress. “But perhaps there is a way out of this for you,” Legolas already knew he would do anything, there was no question. Sauron’s gaze turned crafty, and he ran a hand through Legolas’ hair thoughtfully.

“Do you think you could make me forget what I’ve seen here?” Legolas thought frantically. What could he mean? And then he knew, and it wasn’t so difficult, was it? He already dreamed of it, and he had done it once before…

Sauron sighed impatiently and began to get up, but then Legolas reached out and pulled him closer. He willingly kissed the dark lord, initiating the kiss, with his arms around Sauron’s neck. He felt Sauron smile beneath his lips, letting Legolas control the kiss, deliberately holding back. When it was over Sauron licked his lips and laughed softly, signalling Maglor to stop. Legolas moaned in regret when Maglor pulled out of him. Despite the way the situation had altered, he still wanted Maglor’s closeness, and he couldn’t hide it.

“Very nice, Prince. But, you know it’s going to take much more than that to make me forget such a transgression.” So saying he pulled Legolas from the bed and to his feet so that they were stood facing each other.

Reaching out nervously, Legolas moved closer to kiss Sauron again, only to have him laugh and push him back. Sauron took Legolas’ hands and moved them to rest on the ties that held his robes together in a silent command.

Dropping his gaze, Legolas began to undo them. As he did so the breathless feeling of being close to the dark lord took hold of him again, and by the time he had unlaced the leather laces of the robes his hands were shaking. He drew apart the folds of material reverentially and pushed them down the dark lord’s arms. There was a moment when the material had gathered around Sauron’s wrists, and Legolas couldn’t help pausing there to look into his eyes.

Hands closed tightly around his arms and Legolas took a sudden deep breath. They were stood so close together that Legolas’ nipples brushed against Sauron’s chest. His skin seemed to burn with a fire that Legolas’ body recognised, and he felt himself responding to the nearness, unable to look away from those dark eyes. Sauron let go of his arms and reached around him, brushing the back of one hand down the length of his back, and Legolas shivered. He was aware of everything. That same electricity in the feel of his fingertips, the cool contrast of his fingernails. So different to what he shared with Maglor. He unconsciously moved closer, pressing himself against Sauron as if in invitation.

One of the dark lord’s hands stayed on the small of his back, supporting him, while the other moved too quickly in front of his face, the palm towards him. Legolas instinctively turned his face away to avoid being hit, closing his eyes, and he didn’t realise he had exposed the long line of his neck until Sauron’s lips were upon him.

He moaned, and it changed to a startled cry when he felt Sauron impossibly biting into his neck; piercing his skin, and making the blood flow. He felt the pain, and on some level he was dimly aware that it shouldn’t feel good, but it did. Sauron didn’t just drink of his blood. He pulled at Legolas’ soul, drew upon his essence and immortality in a rhythmic way that was at the same time soothing and sexual. It was a truth he knew he didn’t really understand, yet. He eagerly exposed more of the sensitive skin to Sauron’s lips and teeth. He wanted to die like this, and he knew that he could if it didn’t stop.

Through the dreamlike sensations he heard Maglor whimpering in terror on the bed behind him, and he could feel that Sauron had _changed_ in some fundamental way. Heat had turned to cold, and there was something different about the feel of the hands on him. Sauron’s grip was claw-like now. What was this? He almost knew what it was; he tried to remember, and then at once the word was on fire in his mind, demanding to be seen and recognised. He kept his eyes tightly closed, but his mind furnished him with a startlingly clear vision regardless. He saw himself, held in the grip of some giant, white, loathsome insect. He didn’t even want to see the shadow of it. It was monstrous, it was against nature, it was everything he wasn’t, and he should be panicking – but he couldn’t care.

“Don’t stop.” He didn’t know if he spoke aloud or if he merely thought the words, but he knew Sauron heard them nevertheless. His dark laughter filled Legolas’ mind like a caress, and through the haze of his thoughts he caught a single word… Beautiful. When Sauron finally released him he sank to his knees, weak and dizzy, and overcome with a desire he had never experienced.

Wonderingly, he put a hand to his neck where his blood still trickled slowly from the wounds Sauron had left. He looked up at Sauron, but whatever had changed about him when he drank from Legolas had fled his features now, and he was once again as perfect as ever.

Looking down quickly, and almost without thinking, he began to unlace the dark lord’s leggings. Only when Sauron stood naked before him did he realise the position he was in. Sauron’s erection was close to his face, and Legolas licked his lips unconsciously. He knew what he expected to happen, and Sauron swayed his hips slightly, causing his erection to brush against Legolas’ lips. But when Legolas reacted by opening his mouth Sauron withdrew from him. He walked around Legolas and away from him, leaving him kneeling on the floor.

Anger and humiliation burned in Legolas for a moment, and then he rose to his feet in a graceful, fluid motion, turning at the same time, ignoring the sudden dizzy feeling he had for moving so quickly. He saw Sauron settled on the bed, one arm around Maglor, gently stroking the other elf’s back. All Sauron’s deeds and threats returned to him at the sight of Maglor and he swallowed the angry words that had been on his lips.

Sauron stared at him in amusement as if he were aware of every thought in Legolas’ mind, and just as Legolas had decided that there was nowhere to go but to him, and nothing to do but what he desired, Sauron clicked his fingers.

Blushing, Legolas walked over to the bed, all the while looking into Sauron’s eyes. He was compelling, and irresistible, but Legolas’ anger did not lessen. If he was forced to do this – was he forced, or was it, in fact, what he wanted – then he would do it _how_ he wanted. He climbed onto the bed and moved so that he straddled Sauron. He looked down into the dark lord’s eyes. Sauron was staring up at him hungrily, and Legolas deliberately let his long hair dangle down, letting it brush against Sauron’s face.

There was a glint of anger in Sauron’s eyes at that, and he reached around to pull Legolas down to him. Their kiss was violent and Legolas matched Sauron’s rough treatment with his own. He tasted blood, and he wasn’t sure whose it was, but it seemed to just incite him further. He took Sauron’s hand away from his hair and forced it back down onto the pillow at the side of the dark lord’s head. Sauron laughed loudly at that, and Legolas pulled back, looking down at him again, this time with annoyance for being interrupted.

“Do you think you can win?” he asked delightedly, throwing a pointed glance at his hand, which was imprisoned by Legolas. He raised himself up slightly and looked deeply into Legolas’ eyes. “You can’t help doing exactly what I want, can you?”

Growling, Legolas took Sauron’s lips again, wanting to punish him. He had never felt this kind of violent passion, and it took him by surprise with its intensity. He didn’t really care if this was what Sauron wanted from him, he just wanted him. He let go of Sauron’s hand so that he could move lower, grazing his teeth over Sauron’s neck.

He licked a line up over Sauron’s ribcage to his nipple, tasting his flesh, the salt of his sweat. He bit down lightly on the nipple, rejoicing when he heard Sauron gasp. He was vaguely aware that Sauron had his hands tangled in Maglor’s hair, kissing him. It didn’t matter, he knew that Sauron was completely aware of what _he_ was doing.

Leaning back, he let his hands brush over Sauron’s legs, raking his fingernails over the inside of his thighs. He watched as Sauron released Maglor to moan longingly, his eyes half-closed. For the briefest moment of time he caught Maglor’s eye, and they almost didn’t recognise each other. The moment was over before it could mean anything though, and Maglor began to lick and suckle at one of Sauron’s nipples while the dark lord continued stroking his hair. Legolas looked to Sauron, and he was staring at Legolas with such obvious desire that it made him smile. He moved lower, until he was sitting on Sauron’s legs, and at last turned his attention to the dark lord’s erection.

Remembering how Sauron had teased him earlier, he leaned over and breathed over it, starting from the bottom, and ending at the top. He heard Sauron moan, and he moved beneath Legolas impatiently. Legolas smiled, and held back his laughter, pursing his lips to blow softly over the hard flesh. Again he started at the bottom and ended at the top, but this time he moved his head slightly so that his breath moved over Sauron’s length from side to side.

He heard Sauron curse him in the black speech, and that made Legolas grin, before he took Sauron into his mouth, almost swallowing him. At once Sauron’s hips lifted from the bed, driving his hardness deep into Legolas’ throat, and Legolas almost choked, but then relaxed to allow it as he began to move his tongue over the underside of his shaft. He started to move his mouth and lips up and down over the flesh, taking tiny breaths as he did so, relishing the sound of the dark lord’s whispered pleas and moans that were almost words. He felt Sauron getting closer beneath his lips and tongue and he moved faster to encourage it, but then he felt his hair being pulled roughly, taking him away from what he was doing.

Before he could take in what was happening, Sauron yanked him forward by his hair and then let his hands drop down to Legolas’ buttocks, pulling them apart in preparation. He barely had time to remember to relax himself before Sauron pulled him down roughly; filling him with the hard flesh that had so recently been in his mouth. Legolas cried out loudly in shock and Sauron laughed, holding him down firmly, not moving, until he recovered enough to use him.

His eyes focused on Sauron, and he glared at him. He remembered Sauron’s words; “Do you think you can win?” and he realised that he hadn’t won anything. He had merely done exactly what Sauron wanted, just as he predicted. In his weakened state, it was as though the strange magic Sauron used to manipulate his desires had more influence.

He only realised that he couldn’t see Maglor when he felt arms close around him. At first he wondered what Maglor was doing, then he struggled when Maglor pulled his arms back so that his hands were resting on Sauron’s legs, forcing him to put his weight on them. He panicked a little when he realised he couldn’t get up from this position, and then he concentrated on relaxing his lower body when Sauron began to move back and forth inside him.

His head fell back onto Maglor’s shoulder, and he moaned helplessly when Maglor began to run his hands over his exposed body. One of his hands teased a nipple while the other started to move over his member. Sauron kept hitting that place inside him with every thrust, and Legolas couldn’t escape from them. “Please,” he gasped breathlessly, but neither of them stopped. He couldn’t lift his hands to protest at what was happening to him. Maglor bent his head and licked at the wounds Sauron had left on his neck earlier, and as Sauron laughed softly at the image in front of him, Legolas couldn’t hold back anymore.

He came with a loud cry, but the torture didn’t end. It carried on for a few minutes longer until at last Legolas felt Sauron grow impossibly big inside him. Legolas grunted in discomfort at the last few thrusts, as they became less rhythmic.

Sauron came inside him and Legolas found himself being pulled forward. Finally, he was held in the dark lord’s embrace. Still exhausted from his own orgasm, he relaxed against Sauron’s chest. He no longer had to hold his weight on his arms, and the sudden freedom made his arms heavy and useless. The dark lord rested his hand on Legolas’ belly, and he shivered. “Mine,” he said in a way that made Legolas despair. Sauron’s lips roamed over his neck and his ear, and he whispered to Legolas.

“You know the word, don’t you, my elf Prince?” Legolas was barely aware of anything, but he nodded to Sauron’s enquiry. “Tell it to me, then,” he demanded.

Legolas responded immediately.

“Beautiful,” he murmured quietly, so that only the two of them could hear it. Sauron held him close for a couple of minutes longer, before pushing Legolas away to lie beside him. Sauron kept one arm around him, and Legolas rested his head on it, looking down to see Maglor cleaning his seed from Sauron’s body with his tongue. He should be disgusted, he thought, but he didn’t have the energy.

Maglor came back to lie at the other side of Sauron, and their eyes met. There was a silent conversation, during which Legolas almost touched the wounds on his neck as part of a question, and Maglor’s gaze nearly rested meaningfully on Sauron. Legolas understood, and it was as he suspected anyway. Despite how he felt about Maglor, he couldn’t bear the thought that the other elf might wilfully aid Sauron, the idea bothered him. Satisfied, he relaxed again, and as Sauron absently toyed with his hair, he even began to doze a little. Sauron’s next words a while later brought him back from the brink of sleep.

“I think I need to concentrate on you today, Legolas. As we ascertained before, you are in need of a reminder, while Maglor here is too accepting of late.” He caressed Maglor’s face as he spoke, and the elf rubbed his cheek against the dark lord’s hand like a cat, but then he stopped and looked at Sauron with wide eyes.

“No!” Maglor protested.

“Ah, life!” Sauron chuckled. “You have been entirely too quiet and submissive these last few years, Maglor. It’s rewarding to know you still crave my attention, as ever.” He rolled over until he was lying on the top of the elf, holding his hands down on the bed with one arm as he looked into his eyes.

“So… you wish to be in his place, hmm?” he asked thoughtfully, brushing his thumb over Maglor’s lips.

“Yes, _Hîr nín_ , you know I do,” Maglor said, managing to sound truly grateful. With a start Legolas realised that his reaction was not feigned. Sauron just laughed and reached out to pull Legolas closer, whispering ominously to him to watch, and listen… and learn.

“Oh, but that is not good enough, Maglor.” Sauron reached down and pushed Maglor’s legs apart, forcing his knees up, and placed the head of his erection at Maglor’s entrance. “You must make me believe it, if you want me to spare him,” Sauron said, waiting for the answer that he knew was coming.

“Please,” Maglor begged, and at that Sauron thrust into him, pulling Maglor’s hips towards him at the same time, so that the elf cried out with the sudden penetration.

“Getting better,” he said darkly. “What do you want, Maglor?” Sauron asked as he started to move in and out slowly, drawing soft, needy moans from the elf’s lips. “Are you asking me to hurt you?”

Maglor opened the eyes that he had closed and his gaze was smouldering and lustful. The deep blue of his eyes darkened even more at Sauron’s words and he sighed longingly, reaching up to pull Sauron down to him, and wrapping his long legs around the dark lord’s waist. They kissed deeply, and Legolas watched as Sauron’s tongue entered his mouth, dominating him. His hand held the back of Maglor’s neck, trapping him in the kiss, and when he pulled back there was desire in his eyes too.

“Say it!” he barked out aggressively, punctuating his words with a forward snap of his hips that even Legolas could feel. Maglor seemed to lose his breath for a moment, his eyes became unfocused, and then he moaned loudly again, the moans coming as words.

“I… want…”

“Yes?” Sauron demanded, increasing the pace, and not releasing his hold on Maglor, forcing him to keep the eye contact. Maglor’s gaze turned to pure fire and he gave himself to the submission so passionately it could almost have been a challenge.

“I want you to hurt me!” he cried out, and then relaxed suddenly, his orgasm claiming him without direct stimulation of his member. He closed his eyes again as Sauron smiled down at him. “Please, _Hîr nín_ ,” he begged, his voice becoming soft and needful once more, as Sauron took him with increasing speed and urgency.

“And what is the truth behind that, Maglor?” he ground out, as he filled Maglor with his hard flesh again and again, to the sound of the elf’s cries. “Be honest,” he warned, breathing heavily, “because the Prince here thinks you sacrifice yourself for him.” While Maglor’s eyes were closed Sauron turned his lust-filled gaze to Legolas, and stared at him. “Legolas needs to know. He feels it already, but won’t acknowledge it.” He looked back at Maglor. “Why do you beg, _mûl vain nín_?”

“Because I want to please you, _Herdir_ ,” he said without hesitation, opening his eyes. They looked at each other and Sauron groaned with his climax, thrusting into the elf so deeply that Maglor whimpered and tears came to his eyes. The dark lord’s arms closed around the elf and held him close, lifting him from the bed, burying his face in Maglor’s hair.

“Always so good,” he murmured heavily a few moments later, “and you do please me.” Then he moved back and settled himself comfortably, not pulling out of the elf, but holding him down again firmly.

“Now,” he began with a smirk, “why don’t you tell Legolas why you seduced him today?” Maglor gasped and fought to get free, but Sauron wouldn’t let him move so much as an inch. He merely watched interestedly as Maglor struggled and then gave in, obviously enjoying the sight of it. Maglor looked up at the dark lord with such a haunted pain in his eyes that Legolas shivered.

“Please… Don’t… not this…” he begged shamelessly, tears beginning to shine wetly on his cheeks. He spoke so quietly that Legolas almost didn’t hear his next words.

“Please don’t take it away from me…”

“Tell him,” Sauron suggested silkily, ignoring the elf’s desperate pleas.

Maglor seemed to sag in his arms, and his eyes closed. He swallowed as if he was taking medicine he didn’t like the taste of, and yet he answered. “Because it was what you wanted, _Hîr nín_ ,” he admitted, and then began to sob.

“Yes, that’s right,” Sauron commented, throwing a glance at Legolas. “You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” he asked, lazily following the trail of Maglor’s tears with one finger.

There was no fight left in the elf beneath him, and he answered the question quietly. “Yes, _Herdir_ , anything.”

“Good. Because today I want to watch. Today, you will take my usual place and I will direct you.”

At Sauron’s words Maglor froze, and he stopped breathing, looking up at the dark lord in horror.

“You’re not seriously thinking of refusing me, are you?” he asked pleasantly.

Maglor suddenly looked uncertain. “Refuse?” he repeated, as if he didn’t know what the word meant, and perhaps by now Legolas realised with a sick feeling, he didn’t. His last word was barely a breath. “No.”

“Good.” Sauron laughed softly as he looked down at Maglor. “Because I think I can promise it is something you _would_ have enjoyed.”

Sauron shifted a little and Maglor gasped.

“Oh? Always so surprised. But you know what your suffering does to me. You are so irresistible like this, when I break you – so completely mine.” Sauron began to move again, looking deeply into Maglor’s eyes. Legolas turned away from the sight of them. He knew he should be angry with Sauron, but he couldn’t remember exactly why. Maglor’s confession and compliance filled his mind, and made him enjoy the other’s helpless cries as the dark lord took him again. This time Sauron made it last, and made it count, and secretly Legolas was glad.

 

Translations:

_Hîr nín_ – my lord  
 _Herdir_ – master  
 _mûl vain nín_ – my beautiful slave  



	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Six

Before now Legolas wouldn’t have believed it was possible to be with Maglor like this. Sauron had left them alone with a promise to return later. They looked at each other, and there were no words. This time Maglor didn’t smile, and the darkness remained. It was an awkward silence; everything between them was spoiled and broken, and no apology could mend it. Love, if it had ever been there, couldn’t save them, or make any of this right. Maglor turned away and that was when Legolas spoke.

“You pretended,” he said, in a lost tone of voice. He was confused – what they shared seemed so real, so natural – he couldn’t believe it was a lie. He felt numb and betrayed, and more than anything he wanted to be back in his old room. He wanted to be alone in this place, and recognising that desire hurt more than anything the other elf had done. Maglor was walking away from him, but at Legolas’ words he stopped and flinched as if he had been hit. He didn’t turn to face Legolas, but his head fell down and he seemed to slump.

Maglor sighed as if he wanted to say a thousand words in reply, but all he said was; “No, _pen neth_ , I didn’t.”

Suddenly Legolas was furious with the older elf. He had seen the passion in his eyes when he was with Sauron, _enjoying_ whatever it was the dark lord did for him. His sigh and his words stoked the fire in Legolas – it all seemed so overdone and dramatic – and so much like pretence.

“When did he come to you? While I was asleep?” Legolas demanded, wishing he knew of a way to hurt the other elf with his words as Sauron had.

Maglor turned to face him then, and for a moment Legolas caught a flash of the same fire that was there when Sauron had taken him. “He didn’t!” Maglor said forcefully. “It was obvious when he left you with me what he expected, and _I_ was happy to do it.” His words were bitter and resentful, and they struck at Legolas’ heart like arrows.

“But why?” he whispered, unable to hide the pain that gripped his soul.

The coldness left Maglor’s eyes at the sight of him, and for a moment Legolas was sure that he was going to walk over and somehow make everything all right. But he didn’t move.

“For too many reasons, but I didn’t pretend, _pen neth_ , never think that.” Maglor was asking for something, and as he turned away Legolas got up from his place on the bed and approached him. He wanted something too, but he didn’t know what. All he knew was that the anger was still there, eating away at him. He put a hand on Maglor’s shoulder to force him to turn around again.

Maglor resisted him, and his next words almost turned Legolas to stone, so cold and angry they were. “Leave me alone.”

How dare he desire to be alone here? Legolas thought disjointedly. Acting and sounding as if he, Legolas, was the one who had done something wrong. Anger turned to hate, and adrenaline began to race through his veins when Maglor refused to face him.

“No!” he replied with all the intensity he could muster. And then Maglor did face him. For a moment Legolas glared at the other elf, so lost in his own feelings, that he didn’t notice his look mirrored on Maglor’s face.

They were only a few steps away from the bed, and suddenly Legolas found himself being pushed back. The violence was so unexpected that he could do nothing as Maglor pushed him against the bed and then bodily threw him on it. Before he could rise the other elf was on top of him, knocking the breath out of his lungs and holding him down by imprisoning his wrists.

“Don’t you see?” Maglor almost seemed to hiss, as Legolas finally began to struggle, looking down at him with such loathing that Legolas closed his eyes and turned his face away. “I haven’t changed… _in all this time_.” Then his voice became lower, and Legolas began to realise that Maglor’s anger was not directed at him – but at himself.

“I may have lost my place, but I haven’t lost my name, or myself… and _you_ …” Maglor’s grip on his wrists tightened and Legolas opened his eyes then. Maglor looked him up and down, deliberately, returning to his face with the same powerful resentment in his eyes. But then something seemed to change. He stared at Legolas as if it were the first time he had seen him and tears filled his eyes again.

Maglor released Legolas and turned away from him, lying down on the bed. Legolas reached out to touch Maglor but his hand halted in mid-air when the other elf spoke.

“You know I’m going to do it, don’t you?” For a moment Legolas didn’t catch Maglor’s meaning. “Whatever he asks of me,” he clarified, and Legolas felt cold all over. This is what it was really all about; all of Legolas’ anger was concerned with the betrayal. How could Maglor have agreed to it, without a single word of protest? Legolas had never felt so helpless, and he simply could not put himself in Maglor’s place. He would have resisted, even if it were pointless. He took a while to respond, his words sounding stunned and lifeless, even to him.

“I know.”

Legolas sat up and stared into space. Everything was wrong here, nothing was exactly what it seemed, and he found himself with two enemies instead of one. Maglor was talking to him, clutching at his arms, brushing fingers against his face, and for a moment Legolas came back to hear what he had to say.

“I am sorry.” It was pathetic. Legolas wanted to laugh, but he didn’t have it in him, instead he shrugged, and turned away. Like the wood, what had at first seemed a respite in the bleakness of his surroundings was turning out to be far worse. His mind alighted on different thoughts like a butterfly, unable to settle anywhere, but then he thought of Sauron. He thought of the fire that the dark lord’s touch awoke in him, and at last there was something he could think about, something real, something that didn’t ache, that wasn’t completely hollow.

Arms held him, hands stroked his hair gently, and Legolas closed his eyes. He said nothing, and didn’t protest when Maglor’s touches became insistent. He simply lie back and allowed it, while his mind tried to make him believe that the hair that brushed against him was black, that the hands caressing him were capable of cruelty. When Maglor penetrated him once more and rocked within him, taking whatever comfort his body could provide, Legolas wasn’t even aware of calling out Sauron’s name, or the brief flash of pity on Maglor’s face. All he knew was that it stopped, and then he knew nothing.

* * *

Maglor once more watched over Legolas’ sleep. He looked away, and then began to speak quietly as if Legolas could hear him.

“I know where you go to, _pen neth_ , but it won’t last. Nothing does. Resistance, submission, acceptance, and even madness; all these are short-lived in the context of eternity, and all fade in the face of his constancy. When you realise he won’t let you go, your mind clings to the one certainty, as though it were comfort. There is a moment when you realise that the best and the worst thing he could do would be to leave you to yourself, and then his tortures are at last bearable. One day you will run just to be reassured that he will find you. One day he will hurt you and you will want to say thank you.”

Legolas mumbled something in his sleep, and Maglor looked down. He had been lost in his own thoughts again, and again it made no difference. He knew this was the unnatural sleep of escape, and he couldn’t deny Legolas that. He looked lost and hurt for a moment or two, and then continued talking.

“I didn’t pretend, _pen neth_. How can you think so? But you do not realise yet what he requires of you.” Maglor shook his head. “I thought this was my punishment,” he mused, “but it seems that is not so. What can someone so young have done to deserve this? Your coming here means so many things, Legolas, Prince of Greenwood. It brings the torture of hope, the possibility of companionship, and the surety of jealousy and competition. I know he will not hesitate to take advantage of all of these. But still, I am glad you are here. Sleep. When you awake I will be waiting for you. You will not be alone. That much at least I can promise you, I hope.”

Reaching out a hand, Maglor let his fingers move lightly over Legolas’ belly. “It should have been me. Why wasn’t it?” He smiled bitterly; already aware of the slightest note of envy mixed in with the relief. But he had no answer for himself, and so he settled back, losing himself in the same thoughts that had occupied him for millennia, waiting for Legolas to wake up, or Sauron to return, whichever came first.

* * *

Awakening to almost the very same sensations he had fallen asleep to was strange. He could almost forget he’d been asleep. He had been pulled from his place on the bed, and strong arms held him close. Warmth and darkness, drowning…

“Sauron,” he murmured, as he had when the darkness took him earlier. This time he was right. Full consciousness returned slowly, like the tide to the shore. The dark lord did nothing to shock him into wakefulness. His touch was gentle and indescribably sweet. Hands moved soothingly over his back and came to rest on his buttocks. Trapped between the body heat and the hands, Legolas moaned longingly, pressing himself against the dark lord like a favoured pet as awareness returned to his eyes.

From that first moment Sauron captured his gaze. They looked into each other’s eyes and then Legolas was confused. Hadn’t he been with Maglor? Maglor. Suddenly the rest of his memories clicked into place, and he realised that Sauron had returned to carry out his promise of punishment. And that meant…

He held on to Sauron as if his life depended on it. His put his arms around Sauron’s neck and buried his face in the dark lord’s hair. He would do anything for this not to be real. A part of him knew full well that he was in the hands of the enemy, and that he would be better off with Maglor. But a larger part of him still clung to the idea of Maglor’s betrayal. “Please,” he moaned in supplication, partly for release, and partly to be freed from whatever Sauron had planned for Maglor to do.

When Sauron spoke his voice was deep and silky, like velvet covered steel.

“Legolas, listen to me.” Legolas did listen, and he was unable to ignore Sauron’s amused sarcasm. “I want to save you from him, but I cannot. I am so very sorry, _pen neth_. I wish it were different, but I’m powerless to stop this.” Sauron paused there for a moment, before adding more loudly; “Isn’t that right, Maglor?” As he spoke he turned Legolas around in his arms so that he stood with his back to Sauron, and faced Maglor. He almost flinched when Legolas turned his gaze upon him, and Sauron finished speaking. But then he looked at Legolas meaningfully when he answered.

“Yes, _Hîr nín_.” And if Legolas had not been aware of it before, then he knew now that Sauron was cruelly saying all the things to him that Maglor could not say. For a second he felt such tremendous pity for Maglor it was difficult to breathe.

“Then smile, for today I give you a gift!” Sauron challenged. He pulled Legolas’ arms behind his back, and then Legolas felt the dark lord tying his hands together with thin leather twine. He didn’t even register the meaning of Sauron’s statement. He leaned back against the dark lord and closed his eyes. He wanted to be outraged, but he couldn’t deny the excitement that Sauron’s actions awoke in him. It was a physical manifestation of his helplessness, and he felt sudden shame when he realised that he wanted it. He wanted to be helpless, for him. He couldn’t even contain a moan when he felt Sauron pull roughly at the bonds to tighten them.

“So hesitant. Anyone would think you had forgotten what presents were.”

The words brought Legolas back to where he was, and he opened his eyes.

“Presents?” Maglor asked, looking sharply at Sauron.

“Of course,” Sauron continued smoothly. “Don’t tell me that after all these centuries, Maglor, you don’t dream of having someone else at your command, and at your mercy.” Maglor’s eyes burned with sudden desire as he turned his gaze back to the Prince, and Legolas stared at him in shock. “Yes, I thought so.” Sauron leaned in to speak into Legolas’ ear. “Imagine it. Wouldn’t you like to hear him scream? To see his tender flesh marked by your hands? To have him beg when he no longer knows what he’s begging for…”

While Sauron spoke his hands touched Legolas’ lips, moved over his collarbone, and brushed lightly against the sides of his waist. Finally, he lightly stroked Legolas’ member, the fingers of Sauron’s hand teased him, not quite tight enough, and Legolas couldn’t help giving in to a needy sigh.

In disbelief, Legolas watched as Maglor’s desire darkened to lust. Although Sauron’s words were disturbing, they had sounded almost seductive. But now he began to feel real fear when Maglor reached out to him. He struggled in his bonds and shrank back against the dark lord as Maglor rested his hands on Legolas’ shoulders.

“No! Please,” he whimpered. “Don’t!” There were so many things he wanted to say; don’t listen to him, don’t do this, don’t hurt me. But Maglor seemed not to hear. He looked into Legolas’ eyes without really seeing him.

“Forgive me.” And the words sounded like a knell in Legolas’ mind. He began to tremble when he realised that Sauron was going to have exactly what he wanted. Had there ever really been any question?

“Maglor,” And all the fear he felt was in the sound of his voice. He felt he might be pleading for his young life, and it showed. Maglor put one of his hands over Legolas’ mouth and he felt his heart miss a beat.

“Shh…” Maglor warned him, and it seemed such a final gesture to Legolas’ mind, that he couldn’t help crying a little. His tears spilled over Maglor’s fingers as Sauron pushed him into Maglor’s embrace, and then walked around them both to speak into Maglor’s ear.

“His blood will be as sweet as his tears, don’t you think? And then, of course, he will be so desperate to please you.”

Legolas continued to stare at Maglor, searching for any sign of compassion. But at Sauron’s words Maglor’s eyes half-closed, and he whispered something Legolas couldn’t quite catch.

“But I see I don’t really need to remind _you_ of that,” Sauron said, bestowing a chilling smile on Legolas. “Come. Bring him.”

Maglor removed his hand from Legolas’ mouth and for a moment they looked at each other. “Don’t do this,” Legolas begged immediately. Maglor’s eyes hardened.

“You have to be quiet,” he said in a strange voice that wasn’t quite his own, and pushed Legolas to walk in front of him.

For a few steps, Legolas allowed Maglor to push him forward in stunned silence, but then he saw the reality of the situation he was in and began to struggle.

They turned into a narrow corridor and Legolas cried out, pushing himself back against Maglor, but the other elf seemed immovable. It was almost impossible to fight with his hands tied behind his back, but Legolas never stopped trying to get free. His panicked screams sounded loud in the confines of the corridor, but still they moved forward. It was hopeless.

In a last, desperate attempt to stave off the inevitable, Legolas let himself go limp and heavy in Maglor’s grip, letting his body slide to the floor. He gasped when Maglor grasped hold of his arms and pulled them up behind his back. It was painful, and he had no choice but to stand again. Too soon they reached a door in the corridor, which Sauron unlocked and walked through in front of them.

Legolas didn’t think it was possible to struggle any more than he had been doing, but when he saw the familiar room with the harp, he found a new strength. He pushed himself back against Maglor so suddenly that the other elf moved a little, and Legolas turned, ready to run from the door to that room. But Maglor’s moment of weakness was over and he simply took hold of Legolas’ shoulders to push him backwards.

“No! Please!” Legolas begged and shouted. “Not there! I won’t!” He tried everything he could. He stamped on Maglor’s feet, bit viciously at the hands that held him, and threw himself against Maglor again and again to get him to move out of the way. Nothing worked, however, and finally Legolas spat straight into the other elf’s face. Maglor responded by shoving him backwards roughly, so that Legolas lost his balance and found himself sprawled on the floor.

He scrambled across the room away from both of his captors, and stood once more, trying desperately to free his hands from Sauron’s bonds.

They both advanced on him slowly, until he was backing into a corner of the room. The only sounds in the chamber were his own piteous sobs of helplessness and terror. Legolas looked wildly at both of them, from one to the other, looking for a protector. There was none.

Feverish with panic, and looking for a way out, Legolas’ mind registered the fact that Sauron had stopped moving towards him, and as if commanded Legolas’ turned to him and away from Maglor. He almost threw himself at Sauron’s feet, and at his mercy, trembling and incoherent.

“Shh…” Sauron hushed him. And when a hand lifted his chin, Legolas looked up. Feeling the dark lord’s gaze on him calmed Legolas’ mind immediately like a drug, and he rose gracefully to his feet in silence. There was no mercy in his dark eyes, and yet there was no hint of cruelty either. When Sauron’s hand moved to stroke his cheek, Legolas automatically turned his face into the touch and kissed Sauron’s hand.

Next, he was pulled into a tight embrace as Sauron’s arms closed around him. Legolas sighed and let his head fall back. His lips parted a little, just a short space away from his, and Sauron smiled. He almost cried out when he felt Sauron releasing his wrists from the cruel bonds he made earlier. He felt a sudden, heavy lump in his throat, and tears filled his eyes, spilling soundlessly at the unexpected kindness.

The dark lord brought his hands in front of them both, and regarded the marks on Legolas’ wrists impassively for a moment or two. Legolas found his eyes drawn to the same thing. His wrists were bleeding where he had struggled, but he hadn’t even felt it until now. He watched as Sauron brought one of his hands to his mouth and licked at a line of blood. For the briefest moment a monstrous shadow seemed to pass over his features, but it was over before Legolas could really see it.

Sauron looked back into his eyes then. Still the same cold gaze, giving nothing away. Legolas gasped when Sauron began to tie his hands again, this time in front of him. But he didn’t object, he just continued to stare, until something in him made him want to speak.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and at that Sauron’s lips twitched, his eyes glittering a little more in the gloom. Other arms closed around him from behind, and Sauron released his hands, allowing Maglor to pull Legolas away.

“No… let me go,” he protested weakly, trying to move back towards Sauron, as the dark lord turned away from him. He tried to keep Sauron in his sight as Maglor drew him away and came to stand before him, lifting his hands and arms. He was barely aware of Maglor and what he was doing, but he soon found his arms secured high above his head, high enough that he almost had to stand on tip-toe to accommodate the new position. All that mattered was that he could see the dark lord, and he felt an unnatural gratitude when Sauron walked back towards him.

 

Translations:

_pen neth_ – young one  
 _Herdir_ – Master  
 _Hîr nín_ – my Lord  



	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

**Warning:** This chapter contains torture, and while the physical acts themselves are not very graphically described, the psychological and emotional impact on Legolas is considered at length and in some detail. If such things offend you please skip most of this chapter, but you may want to pay attention to the last few paragraphs.

Chapter Seven

Sauron stopped to pull Maglor aside. There was a murmured conversation that Legolas couldn’t hear, though he strained to understand what was being said, before Sauron came to stand before him.

There was no strength in Legolas’ new position, and when Sauron stood so close, pressing lightly against him, it was all he could do to keep on his feet. He felt lost, anchorless, and completely at the mercy of Sauron. The dark lord laughed softly at his predicament and then his hands held Legolas’ waist, pulling him close, and steadying him.

His thumbs began to move in slow circles over his ribs, as if testing the flesh, and he studied Legolas’ body hungrily.

“Tell me – do you know pain, Legolas?”

The question was the most menacing thing that Legolas had ever heard, and he froze. There had been no time to consider what would happen to him, but now it was here it was much more terrifying than he could have imagined anyway. Pain in itself was not frightening to the young warrior, but the thought that there was no way to escape from it was, and he trembled.

“Answer me.” He didn’t raise his voice to utter the command, just stated it matter-of-factly, and that more than anything else made Legolas want to beg for mercy before it had even begun. How should he respond? What did Sauron expect from him?

“Y-Yes…” he said finally, hesitantly, and the dark lord sighed quietly and released him. He had done something wrong, given the wrong answer, he thought in a panic. But before Legolas could correct his mistake, Sauron was speaking again. He walked around to stand behind Legolas so that the voice was all he had.

“You sound uncertain.” And then Sauron was touching him again. This time covering his eyes with some kind of material. Legolas began to panic in earnest when he realised he could no longer see, and he moved too violently, losing his precarious balance and letting his entire weight rest on his arms. It was too much, his arms were already beginning to ache, and Legolas concentrated on regaining his feet while Sauron continued to speak to him.

“There are many different kinds of pain, Legolas. I wonder if you’ve ever really taken the time to appreciate them all?” The dark lord spoke in an even, modulated tone, as if he were discussing nothing more important than the weather. He began to shake in fear for what must be about to happen to him. Legolas wanted to say sorry, but what for? He wanted to make Sauron stop somehow, but still the voice carried on, and although his words were quiet, Legolas heard them above his own pounding heartbeat and heavy breathing.

“Let us start with something simple. An easy one.” Legolas held his breath and waited, expecting something without knowing what. So when he felt slight heat ghosting up over his arm and lingering on his shoulder he cried out anyway, as if he was hurt. Sauron waited for quiet.

“Warmth is a pleasurable sensation. Even to one who does not feel the cold.” The words were true, and Legolas sighed as the small spot of warmth continued to dance over his body, passing behind him, covering every inch of him. It was almost like being touched. He tried to see through the blindfold but it was impossible. Sauron’s voice was still coming from behind him, so that meant the warmth was something Maglor was doing, if only he could see what it was he would feel better.

His heightened sense of hearing registered a slight hiss while Sauron was quiet. It was a familiar sound, and Legolas frowned. Where had he heard that before? The warmth seemed to come nearer, and suddenly he knew because now he could smell it too. The familiar scent of wax filled the air. Maglor was holding a lit candle to him, the hiss had been the sound of the burning wick.

“Even heat is not too uncomfortable, is it?” Legolas’ mind worked quickly – was he expected to answer? But then the warmth did turn to heat, and he found himself concentrating on keeping still. The flame must be so close to his skin now. His breath came in short gasps as he tried to stay motionless despite his position.

“But to be burnt,” Sauron said suggestively, and then Legolas finally spoke. His words came instinctively, trying to stop what was surely to happen.

“Maglor, please!” he called out into the blind darkness, knowing that the other elf had to hear him, had to know. As if in answer, the flame that was now over his chest came slowly closer, until Legolas fancied he could feel his skin burning. When the fire burnt his flesh in truth, Legolas screamed, unable to stop himself. He tried to move away and only succeeded in losing his balance. He fell forward helplessly and onto the flame. It was not so much the burning as the shock of it that made him cry out, and thrash in his bonds. He tried to calm down, he was hurting his arms, but he couldn’t tell from the sensation alone whether the flame was still there. He wanted so much to be able to see, just to know.

“He will not answer you now. And _you_ will listen to me.” The same soft, sibilant tone, and Legolas began to despair. He was right, wasn’t he? He may as well ask for the rain to stop falling or the seasons to move backwards as ask for Maglor to disobey his Master. Legolas let his head fall down in defeat.

“Now that I have your attention.” Sauron’s voice was slightly mocking. This was only the beginning, he realised, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Legolas shivered in anticipation when the dark lord began to describe fire, as if his very body denied the reality of what was happening. He shivered even when he felt the warmth return.

It _was_ only the beginning, and there was no way to keep his dignity; because Sauron didn’t just describe pain, he also talked of pleasure, and Legolas was made to experience that too. He built up the anticipation in Legolas’ mind perfectly, and so every time the pain came, he cried out helplessly. On it went, until Legolas was begging for it to stop, for him to stop. But he didn’t, and in time Legolas fell silent apart from the cries and screams that were forced from him. He came to desire and despise the hands that carried out Sauron’s suggestions.

“You are quiet, my Legolas. What are you thinking?” The dark lord expected an answer he realised. He didn’t even think about what to say, as those hands roved over his body gently, caressing him, making him sigh in pleasure even as the voice had made him scream before.

“Please… I can’t…” How to explain what couldn’t be put into words? Everything hurt. He could feel everything that had been done to him since this started. The burns, the cuts and the bruises all vied for his attention. Worse was the position he was still forced to assume. His shoulders ached unbearably now, and the balls of his feet were no better. There was simply nowhere comfortable to put his weight, and he shifted restlessly from foot to foot, feeling the burning pain in his ankles and calves. Legolas began to hate his own body. “I’m so sorry,” he cried out at last in misery. “I don’t know pain,” he admitted in a small voice. “I’ll do anything you want.” He broke down then, and the hands waited for him to calm before carrying on with their gentle teasing. “Anything at all,” Legolas added finally. It was the truth. He would give the dark lord anything to make it stop. Anything and everything he had, gladly.

Sauron sighed as if in disappointment. “Your surrender is _not_ what I require, Legolas.” The words were cold and emotionless, and Legolas immediately cried out when the hands moved away from him again, the bitter taste of fear filling his dry mouth, trying to move forwards to follow. All he managed was to lose his footing again, but he didn’t pull himself up this time.

“No! I’m sorry! Please, don’t leave me!” Somehow he had given the wrong answer again, he knew that. Whatever followed would be his own fault, but what else could the dark lord desire? “Only tell me what you want,” he begged the silence blindly. Nothing changed. “Please, tell me…” Legolas heard his own words trail off, and then he heard himself moan. It was a long, keen, plaintive sound that echoed in the chamber, and Legolas had never heard anything sound so lonely. When Sauron began to speak again, silencing him, he was glad.

Another interval of time passed. The torture was seemingly endless, and as he had feared from the start there was no escape from it, no way out. But eventually, welcome delirium came to claim him. It was too much to stay there, where the pain was, too much to pay such close attention to the commentary, but that was when it stopped.

He was barely aware of the voice finally ceasing to describe his torment, knowing the truth – that it didn’t describe what he endured in the least. The pain belonged to him alone. He was still blindfolded, and he didn’t know how bad his injuries were. A time ago he had let his weight rest entirely on his arms, and he found a truth there – that his mind could only tell him about one agony at a time. In desperation he concentrated on the deep ache in his shoulders, until even that became too much and he took some of his weight on the balls of his feet again.

Through the dreamless, almost sleep of his existence came the voice again, but now the words were different, and Legolas listened.

“Come back to me, Legolas, my elf Prince.” Arms were holding him close, and his mind didn’t want to return, but he couldn’t ignore the summons. He cried into Sauron’s embrace, more relieved and grateful than he could ever explain for the comfort offered. The dark lord allowed him to take it, soothing him all the while, stroking his hair and whispering words that to Legolas’ overstrained mind were as good as kindness.

“Shh… yes, that’s right, _bainon nín_. Hear me again,” and Legolas obeyed, drinking in the reminder of what he was and his place in the world hungrily.

“I won’t leave you alone,” the dark lord promised, “I can’t.” More tears now, because he was alone, wasn’t he? Completely alone with his pain. But he couldn’t begin to imagine an existence without it. Without Sauron’s voice, without him playing his part in the world they shared. In a way they were together, and Legolas needed him. No, he didn’t want to be alone, and so he was grateful for the reassurance.

“Thank you.” It was his own voice; dry, cracked and broken. Legolas barely recognised it. But there was no time to dwell on it, because Sauron’s hands held his face and before he could think there were lips over his. How long since Sauron had kissed him? He couldn’t remember, but he gave in to the demands of the dark lord gladly.

His tongue entered Legolas’ mouth, but it didn’t stay. He encouraged Legolas’ tongue to follow, and he obeyed. He forgot everything then, almost unaware even of Sauron holding him, of the scent and the heat surrounding him. There was pressure on his tongue, and then suddenly Sauron was biting him there, and Legolas cried out – it hurt – but it didn’t end. He tasted his own blood for a moment before the dark lord was sucking on his tongue, drawing blood from him again, taking from him even now, and he felt his heart quicken. No, never leave me alone, Legolas thought.

Gradually, Sauron drew back. He had changed again, Legolas was aware of the unnatural cold. But he tried to follow, standing on his toes and straining his arms. The hands that were so obviously claws raked viciously at his waist as they left him. He didn’t care, he just wanted more, and he craved for it even to the last touch of Sauron’s lips on the tip of his tongue.

There was silence for a moment, and Legolas could almost see the dark lord licking his lips. “Now,” he considered. “Should I continue, or start again at the beginning?”

Never alone – not with that voice, so deep and warm. But there was a question again, wasn’t there? Finally, Legolas realised that there was no right or wrong answer to give, only his answer. But how could he reply to this question? How could he ask for the torment to continue?

“Answer me.” The flat, expectant demand was almost a copy of earlier, but everything was different now. Legolas knew he couldn’t reply the way Sauron wanted.

“The beginning?” he asked nervously, the last vestige of self, afraid and hurt, claiming that nothing could last so long without ending in death.

“Very well, my Prince,” Sauron said, deliberately taking his question the wrong way. As soon as Legolas wanted to protest, self-doubt clouded his mind. Who was to say that Sauron was wrong? He had said the words, hadn’t he?

When Sauron began the lecture again, Legolas was once more aware of everything in unforgiving cold clarity.

A timeless period passed for Legolas, with the only points of reference being Sauron’s quiet voice and the sensations of his own body. The dark lord ignored his tears, his screams, and his desperate pleas for mercy and freedom, until Legolas began to doubt the reality of his own voice. After hot came cold, after cold came sharp, after that blunt, and on it went. Never sudden, the dark lord described the lightest tickling touch of a knife blade in the same loving way he described the cruel kiss of leather. He knew he was wounded, the coppery smell of his own blood surrounded him. So much pain. Always different, always changing, never allowing him to rest. He lived the dark lord’s words, and for Legolas, Sauron’s words quickly became all the truth and reality in the world. There was no longer a will for it to stop. The always-fragile idea of an existence outside this weakened still further, until Legolas would have forgotten his own name had Sauron not reminded him of it occasionally.

He hungered for the words to change, for more meaning, and Legolas’ mind snatched greedily at every word that was not included in the pain. His name, the way Sauron referred to him, the indulgent descriptions of the lightest sensations. All he needed to know was here, and everything else was forgotten.

When it stopped again, Legolas cried. Sauron came to stand close behind him, his hands holding Legolas’ hips. “Who do you belong to?” It was too easy.

“You,” Legolas answered immediately. Hands were reaching for his blindfold, and when it was removed Legolas closed his eyes against the unfamiliar light, weak as it was.

“Only me?” Sauron asked, that dark humour back in his voice.

Legolas opened his eyes and found himself looking at Maglor. The other elf reached out to hold his face. Legolas was entranced. Those hands! He shivered as Maglor touched his neck and shoulders, remembering everything all over again. The hands of his tormentor were stroking him, but his blue eyes were like ice, and Legolas couldn’t look away.

“Well?” Sauron asked. “Tell me again who you belong to.”

It was impossible… the voice behind him, the hands before him. He was torn between one and the other. “Please! I don’t know!” he cried out miserably, knowing it was the wrong answer, certain that both would punish him for it.

Instead, Sauron began to untie him, and Legolas sobbed in relief and gratitude. Between them they made up the whole, the hands and the voice. Between them they held him up when he would have fallen, both pressing into him. Sauron took his arms and pulled them back to rest on his shoulders while Legolas continued to stare at Maglor. The dark lord let his hands brush lightly down the underside of Legolas’ arms and he sighed. Maglor looked at him hungrily, and Legolas closed his eyes.

It was at last different. Something had at last changed, and Legolas didn’t even realise he was crying. They both spoke to him, but he didn’t understand the words that he could no longer feel. They seemed to be words only for their own sake, and how could that make sense? Two sets of hands touched him, and he submitted to their attentions gladly and gratefully. Their demands helped to fill the void, the aching emptiness that until now had been concerned with the pain.

“Beautiful, Legolas, you truly are mine at this moment. I am pleased with you.” The words came at the right time, and how could he not understand them? He felt something at the statement that was pleasurable, and he was at peace. He tried to remember what he was supposed to say in answer, but then Sauron kissed him, and his tongue was inside Legolas’ mouth. He remembered then – he wanted to say ‘thank you’ – but it didn’t really matter. Legolas responded to the kiss exactly as his Master desired, and he had no secrets.

* * *

Maglor watched as Sauron kissed Legolas deeply, right in front of his eyes, and he hoped for Legolas’ sake he wouldn’t be attempting to escape again, but he knew from his own experience no one gave up that easily…

He shook his head to shake off the memories that threatened. At least he knew now why Sauron had bid him to carry out the torture. It had been too easy, and Maglor felt a shadow of guilt when he remembered how hurting Legolas had made him feel. But then, it hadn’t been anything life threatening; Maglor was well aware of the effect the dark lord’s voice could have when you were blindfolded. Every cry for mercy from the young Prince had just made Maglor feel colder towards him, simply because he _was_ innocent, and because he _didn’t_ deserve it. While he was carrying out Sauron’s orders, listening to the young one’s screams, Maglor had once more felt alone, and it made him angry. He _wanted_ Legolas to suffer like he did for one moment, but he never would. Yes, it had been easy… it had been pleasurable.

Now Sauron was looking at him knowingly, and Maglor had to fight the urge to smile. He didn’t know where it came from. In some twisted way he relished the realisation that Sauron did indeed know how much he had enjoyed playing his part. He liked the cruelty of it.

* * *

They looked beautiful together, and Sauron smiled inwardly. Oh, it had been worth allowing Legolas to wake up! Perhaps that was what had been going wrong all this time. He hadn’t allowed any of the others to become aware of what they were being used for, fearing that they would fade despite his magic. Now, it was all working so perfectly at last, and it pleased him, made him forget for a while the never-ending search for the ring, for the one thing that would end all Middle-Earth’s resistance to his power. This time it was going to work. This time he was sure. There would be no havens in the west.

He examined Legolas, and found everything to be just as he expected and wanted – _his_ child was still doing well, he didn’t care much about the other but that was fine too. The Prince was looking at him, just waiting for him to demand something; a good state of existence, but it wouldn’t last, Sauron reflected with regret, brushing the back of one hand down the side of Legolas’ face.

“Take care of him, and yourself,” he said quietly, giving the same command as before, and he looked at Maglor to make certain he was understood. Maglor looked back at him and then bowed his head.

“Yes, _Hîr nín_.” Sauron narrowed his eyes. So, the guilt was back. He wasn’t entirely surprised, only mildly disappointed. It had been close. Still, there was time. There was always time, and Sauron knew now that Legolas’ being here was no bad thing. He smirked. Well, not bad for some. He waited until Maglor looked up again.

“Thank you, _Herdir_.” Sauron nodded, and gave Legolas over to Maglor, dismissing them both with a wave of his hand.

 

Translations:

_Hîr nín_ – my lord  
 _Herdir_ – master  
 _bainon nín_ – my beautiful one  



	8. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Eight

Maglor carried Legolas back to their room in his arms. When they arrived, he set Legolas down on the bed without speaking and tied him down with thick ropes. Legolas simply stared at Maglor as he went about this task, waiting for something to be asked of him. He watched as Maglor went to the small bathroom and came back with water and a cloth, then began to clean his wounds. It didn’t take long; he was already healing.

“You do not need to worry, _pen neth_ , you are not too badly injured.” Maglor looked at him at last, and he finally seemed to register the blank look in Legolas’ eyes. He sighed. When he was finished he came to sit on the floor by the side of the bed, and rested his head on one hand, while he draped his other arm absently across Legolas’ stomach. He looked as though he was waiting for something.

Legolas watched Maglor for a while as the other elf became lost in his thoughts, and then his gaze moved restlessly. He looked at the ceiling. There was nothing there to hold his attention either, and he tested the ropes as if in boredom. Over time his mind began to drift into sleep, and he closed his eyes, only to see a picture. It was another elf, but it wasn’t Maglor. This elf looked like him, almost exactly the same. Was it him? No, the elf in his vision had sparkling green eyes. “Merenon,” he murmured, his mind providing him with the word. This was a memory. Legolas gasped in shock.

The arm over him moved away immediately, and Maglor’s gaze was upon him. Legolas looked at Maglor blindly, trying to come to terms with the memories that were rushing in on him – things he had forgotten so heartbreakingly easily. Details of people, of family, of times he shared with others. Some good, some bad, all of them conspiring to make him who he was. Who was he? And as soon as he knew to form the question the answer was coming at him.

“No!” he shouted, twisting violently in his bonds, trying to tear himself free with sheer physical force. But where could he go to escape his own mind? He felt the pain and anguish as his sense of self returned suddenly to its rightful place. “No!” He screamed this time. It was too much, it had to be too much. His eyes opened in full awareness and he looked around him wildly. He saw Maglor, and he saw a way out.

“Hurt me!” he gasped at the other elf. He could, Legolas knew he could. Maglor looked back at him with such infuriating resignation that Legolas roared at him in anger.

“I won’t.” Maglor said quietly, and Legolas wept.

“Please,” he begged, and it was not nearly enough to have to plead, not anywhere near enough. “Maglor, please, I _can’t_ do this,” he vowed. “I don’t want it!” he cried out, turning away again. But his shouts contained an awareness of himself as ‘I’ that only seemed to encourage what he was going through, and Legolas’ moan of denial turned into a scream. He twisted again, and arched his back, but still the ropes held him down.

“I am sorry.” Maglor was backing away from the bed now, back on his feet. The expression on his face was indescribable. He looked horrified, but he didn’t seem to be able to look away.

“What’s happening to me?” Legolas demanded of him breathlessly. He _craved_ pain; needed it like he needed air and water. He needed a reminder of what he was, and it wasn’t this. These were all lies, all these memories and thoughts! He wasn’t that… he had a place _here_ , and it was – what was his place? “No,” he moaned bitterly. He had known… _he had been at peace_! Legolas screamed again until he had no breath, and then he continued to scream silently. He heard Maglor answer, and he didn’t understand it then.

“Your mind is healing. It-it happens to me too, when he –”

He looked at Maglor with pure enmity, silencing him, trying everything to get the other elf to remind him of his true place here, knowing all along that the truth was being returned to him. Legolas cried and shouted until he had no voice left. It didn’t help. Eventually the flood of memories and feelings slowed to a trickle, and he lay on the bed like a broken doll, exhausted and pale. He still cried, now soundlessly, for everything he had _willingly_ given up, even for a space of a few hours. His eyes were dry though; he had no tears left.

He was restored and he was truly Legolas again. When the last, excruciating feelings of guilt finally left him, he sighed wearily. He knew what had been done to him, and by whose will. His thoughts turned to the events of the last few hours. He thought of Sauron, and he wanted to hate him so much, but he couldn’t, and he didn’t know why. Instead, he remembered feeling grateful for Sauron’s approval. He felt the shadow of the feeling he had earlier, that he didn’t want the dark lord to leave him alone. He felt his pulse quicken at the thought of Sauron, and knew he still desired him.

“No,” he sobbed, knowing he would never be free after this, knowing that Sauron had stolen a piece of his soul. And although he had forgotten about Maglor the other elf hadn’t forgotten about him. He returned to Legolas finally with water and moistened his lips, encouraging him to drink a little. Legolas obliged, then looked at Maglor in a completely new light, realising now that the same thing had to have happened to him.

“I didn’t know,” he said, stunned, remembering with guilt the anger he had felt for Maglor when he had agreed to the entire scheme. Now he truly understood what it meant to have no choice, how it was that Maglor couldn’t breathe a word of protest, how it was that he could carry out the dark lord’s wishes. And it had been like this for centuries. He knew he couldn’t imagine it.

“How did you…?” Legolas shook his head. “How do…?” He couldn’t finish phrasing the question, he didn’t really know what it was. How could he still be here, after all this time? How did he survive… alone?

Maglor looked at him, and something in his eyes made Legolas feel sick and scared, even in his exhaustion. He wished he hadn’t begun to ask. “He stays with me,” Maglor’s eyes grew darker still at the memory. “To watch.”

Thoughts of what that might be like crowded into Legolas’ mind, and he ignored them all, not wanting to look. It was too horrible to contemplate. The more he heard, the less he could resent Maglor, and he came to understand how he could be Sauron’s accomplice, and yet not lie about his feelings.

“I’m so sorry,” Legolas said, knowing that nothing could erase it, but wishing he could do something to make Maglor smile at him as he had before.

Then Maglor was smiling, but it was a sad smile. He shook his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for, _pen neth_.” Maglor came over to the bed and began to untie him, now that the danger had passed. As he worked Legolas suddenly realised why the bonds were there. Had he not been bound he would surely have hurt himself in his desperation, perhaps even worse. The idea was alien to his kind, they didn’t even have a word for it, and Legolas shuddered knowing that they could both be driven to such a thing in this place – with him. When Maglor freed his arms, Legolas reached out to place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“It’s all right. I understand now.” He wanted to take away Maglor’s guilt. He knew he didn’t really deserve to feel it. Maglor turned to face him, and Legolas didn’t hesitate.

Covering Maglor’s lips with his own, he kissed him gently. It was just as it had been between them before, undemanding and comforting. They connected with each other as before, and what passed between them left serenity in its wake. The feeling was still there, and when they drew back from each other, there were tears in Maglor’s eyes.

“What will happen to us?” Legolas asked him, feeling the first shadowy stirrings of fear for his children, and wondering what Sauron’s plans for them were, his plans for them all.

“I don’t know,” Maglor admitted. Then he looked at Legolas earnestly. “But I need you.”

Legolas tried to give voice to his nameless fears. “I’m changing, aren’t I? Like you?”

“Yes, and soon your condition will be apparent.” Legolas heard the words, and he saw Maglor’s eyes were full of fear and sympathy for him, but he knew he was alone with this. And although he forgave Maglor, he also realised something else.

“I can’t trust you, can I?” There was no resentment in the question, only a kind of desire for the truth. Maglor looked at him for a long moment before answering.

“No, _pen neth_ , you can’t.”

For a while they sat together in silence, each alone with their own thoughts, but Legolas was glad that Maglor was there with him. He thought of the future again, but this time what it might be for him.

“I can’t go through that again, Maglor. I can’t.” And it was true, he believed it even as he believed that Sauron would not allow him to die. His mind shied away from the contradiction.

“It will not be so bad, next time.” And in a way Maglor’s words were everything he was. A comfort and a threat. Someone that made him feel safe, and scared. But it was enough for Legolas. They were friends, not enemies.

* * *

The door opened silently, and a weak shaft of light fell over the figures sleeping on the bed. In his malcontent and fury, Sauron glared at them. He always came here when he was angry, when the search seemed hopeless, when all his plans seemed to be coming to nothing. His desires were fiery and all-consuming; and everything became tangled up in his mind when he was frustrated. Maglor’s screams and sobs were always desperate enough and sweet enough to make him forget. They looked perfect together, nestled in each other’s arms, and Sauron smiled coldly. They would not remain so for long.

Breathing the words of sleep over the two elves, he advanced on the bed. When he was certain that neither of them could be woken, he began his work. Gently, he moved Legolas away from Maglor, so that he was sleeping on the other side of the bed. He had already ascertained that the child was fine, and now he examined Legolas’ injuries. He would require a couple of days to heal completely, but no lasting damage had been done to him. At least, nothing one could actually see…

A shame he wouldn’t be here forever, Sauron thought. Legolas’ desperate submission earlier was tempting enough to make Sauron want to keep him. He dismissed the notion from his mind. No, Legolas was still beloved of the Valar – he would never belong to the darkness – over time he would only become mindless and obedient, and he knew he would grow bored of that. Maglor was different. Sauron sat down on the edge of the bed to study his favourite.

How many centuries had it been? Still, he never grew tired of this one. He was a work of art, like a fine painting. He looked at Maglor, and saw a dependency for his particular brand of cruelty and violence that he had bestowed. He still looked like an elf; so deceptively fragile, so beautiful. Every day he awoke unmarked, unmarred… and every time Sauron ached to spoil that perfection. But it was only skin deep, his mind and his soul were a different territory. His fingers reached out to touch the soft skin of Maglor’s cheek. There really were no limits to what he endured. He had changed Maglor over the years, reformed him with carefully planned brutality, with a million subtle mind games; refined his desires with a mixture of cruelty and kindness – and he enjoyed it all. Patience was something he had, and he realised that in a way he came here to remind himself of it. Calm and order began to return to his mind.

Briefly, he wondered whether the Valar still considered him one of theirs at all. Probably not, he realised with a smile. But then, they hadn’t wanted him anymore anyway. They were blind to his potential, saw it as an imperfection of his soul. Melkor wouldn’t have thought so… Sauron knew that Maglor still grieved for the loss of his place in life and death on Arda; knew that he considered his being here a fitting punishment for his ‘crimes’. But such loyalty to cold, unmoving Gods couldn’t last forever. One day Maglor would change his mind, encouraged by the severity of his suffering at Sauron’s hands; and then he would have not only a willing slave, but a companion too.

Carefully, he arranged Maglor’s pale limbs in the darkness, holding back the violence that wanted to tear open the flesh with his bare hands and his teeth. Just to feel the last, fading heat of his dying blood, to bury his face in Maglor’s inner warmth and consume him, to finally taste the ultimate in submission. His willing death, the very thing he begged Sauron for, too many times now to count. But no, death was not what he wanted from Maglor. He brought his dangerous lust under control easily; he was used to doing it. He had other prisoners for that, and a part of him wondered absently if he had any left with red hair…

The first seconds were always the best. Burying himself in his elf’s heat and tight embrace. He was always ready to be used, even in his sleep. Something else that Sauron had accustomed him to. Were he ever to let Maglor go, which was of course impossible, the elf would probably still prepare himself every day. Sauron smirked at the thought. He drove into Maglor’s passive body fiercely, enjoying the fact that there was no response when he was so deeply asleep. No quickened breathing, no cries, no answering spasms from the body beneath him. Only the heat and the sweet friction as Sauron took what he wanted. He looked into the open blue eyes that held no awareness of him, and couldn’t suppress a lustful moan. It was like stealing from the dead, and how he wanted to steal from Maglor, exactly like this. So delicious! Already he was nearly there, but he didn’t want to finish yet. He stopped moving and rested his entire weight on the sleeping elf until he had recovered himself a little.

He could stop here, he knew. He didn’t always wake Maglor for this. Usually, it was all the more delightful when he took what he wanted and then left without ever waking him. But tonight he needed something else, something more.

“Wake up, _mûl vain nín_.” Sauron released Maglor from the spell he had cast – enough so that awareness began to stir in his eyes – and then claimed him.

He heard and felt Maglor cry out as he captured the first moment of sleepy protest with his lips, filling his elf’s mouth and throat with his tongue even as he filled him up below, stealing his very breath. He felt the body beneath him awaken and clench around him. Sauron moaned, as always surprised and pleasured by Maglor’s instinctive resistance to the violation. No, he would not get this from Legolas; for an elf he was barely more than a youngster, and his mind was too malleable for Sauron’s purposes.

He held Maglor still when he began to struggle, smothering him with his body weight, held down his prisoner’s arms with his hands, and drew back from the kiss to look deeply into his eyes as he took him. There was still the resentment at being disturbed like this, even after all this time. Sauron stopped, feeling a kind of glee, and moved his head close again to whisper into Maglor’s ear.

“You always feel so good, _mûl nín_ , so warm and welcoming… and you know you can’t help but excite me when you resist.”

To prove his point, Sauron pushed powerfully deeper inside Maglor, until the elf had taken all of his length inside, easily overcoming his body’s futile attempts to stop the invasion. Maglor cried out in pain or pleasure, perhaps a mixture. Sauron smiled again secretly; usually it was both. He sighed in contentment and held still for a moment, enjoying the feel of Maglor’s flesh surrounding him, the involuntary contractions of his muscles.

He felt Maglor relax in defeat as he came more fully awake, remembering his submission, and it was all he needed. He used his property more roughly now, pulling Maglor’s legs to rest on his shoulders, and taking hold of his hips, pulling him down to meet every savage thrust. Maglor cried, and it just incited him more to see his helpless tears. Sauron realised just how much he was looking forward to eternity. He found his release quickly, letting go of every one of the problems that plagued him at the same time.

Letting his weight rest on Maglor again, he kissed his slave’s lips while Maglor sobbed a broken ‘thank you’ for using him, licked at a delicately sensitive ear so that Maglor sighed through the last of his tears. He found himself nuzzling Maglor’s neck, sweeping his lips over the pulse, listening to the thundering sound of his blood as it raced through his veins. It was such a perfect place to be, and Maglor quietened down, becoming still beneath him in awed dread and desire. Sauron breathed in deliberately and deeply. Like the wolf, he could smell the scent of Maglor’s fear and arousal. It was as if the elf was just waiting for him to bite into the fragrant skin and taste what moved under the surface. He wanted to, and he would… but just as he felt the change taking hold of him, he stopped. Something was digging insistently into his stomach.

Raising his head he looked at Maglor, and grinned. Maglor just stared back at him, not comprehending for a moment, but then he did and he closed his eyes as if in pain. Sauron couldn’t help but laugh at that, his elf knew very well what happened when he didn’t find his own pleasure early enough.

He rested his weight on his hands and slowly moved down, feeling his softened sex slip from his slave’s body as he let his teeth scrape lightly over the skin of his neck, his shoulder, then his chest. He bit at one of Maglor’s nipples, hard enough to hurt. Oh… so very close to finally taking him. He growled instinctively, low in his throat, and Maglor trembled as if he knew, but Sauron held back. It was a torment he couldn’t resist inflicting on himself.

Getting up to sit beside him, he took hold of Maglor’s erection and moved his thumb over the top, smearing the clear fluid that was leaking from him over the head of it, brushing against the sensitive glans so that Maglor moaned. Unhurriedly, he began to squeeze the shaft in his hand rhythmically at the same time, until Maglor was trembling with want. After a few moments of this Sauron let go to put his hand to Maglor’s mouth, and his plaything obeyed the silent instruction, well known by now, licking at his palm, making it wet and slick with his saliva. When he returned his hand to Maglor’s hardness, he began to stroke him slowly in earnest, and with purpose. Maglor cried out and arched his back, pushing himself into Sauron’s grip. He made Maglor look at him, and quickened his hand, hiding the smile when he saw how close his elf was already.

“Not yet,” he warned. “Wait – and be silent,” Sauron commanded his slave coldly, loving the way his eyes darkened and his breathing became shallow as he tried desperately to obey the order to hold back and be quiet, knowing he must. Sauron never stopped his movements, if anything he gripped just a little tighter, moved his hand up and down slightly faster, listening to the intriguing sound of skin on skin.

“Do you love me?” He asked suddenly, playing a game Maglor was used to, knowing the answer, holding him right on the very edge with the warning in his eyes.

“Yes!” Maglor gasped as he breathed out, daring to voice a needy moan after the word, because having to speak encouraged it. Sauron smiled openly at that, and waited another agonising moment before asking the next question.

“Desire me?” He wondered if Maglor knew that he had ceased to use magic to control him years ago. He no longer needed to, and he wondered how rewarding it would be to tell him.

“Yes!” Maglor must be in pain now; it had taken a long time to make his body this obedient, now it was entertaining to watch him as he struggled. He knew the price for losing control of himself. Sauron wanted to see him lose, and he tried harder to make him, adding a slight twist to the movement of his hand.

“And will you do anything I want?” he asked finally, cruelly seductive.

“Yes!” He felt Maglor grow harder still in his grip, and he narrowed his eyes at his prisoner in pretended annoyance. But the threat was very real, and Maglor whimpered.

“Then you know what I want to hear, Maglor. Say it.”

“Aulendil… Please…” Yes. Now it was personal. It was the only time he allowed Maglor to address him this way, when he was begging to be allowed to find release at his touch. He considered denying him. Sometimes he did, Maglor belonged to him, as did his body and any pleasure it could give him. Oh, but his intensity was wondrous! His need was so exquisite, Sauron could almost feel it. To have such control over him… He leaned closer…

“Now,” Sauron said, and Maglor obeyed before he had even finished uttering the word. Sauron watched him intently, and encouraged him, squeezing the milky fluid from him expertly until it was over, while Maglor unknowingly called out his name again and again.

Sauron trailed his fingers through the seed on Maglor’s stomach and smeared it over his elf’s face and neck while he tried to recover his breath.

“Thank you, _Herdir_.” He laughed softly when Maglor once more obeyed the silent command to lick at his hand like an animal. He whispered a word to his elf slave, something that made him shiver, and then kissed him gently, almost lovingly. He licked delicately at Maglor’s lips with the tip of his tongue, tasting traces of his essence there. Maglor gasped in surprised pleasure at the tenderness, and Sauron smiled. It _was_ an unusual gift he gave.

“For your devotion,” he whispered against Maglor’s lips, and then he left as silently as he had entered.

* * *

When Maglor had cleaned himself, he returned to the bed, and after a moment or two of thought he brought Legolas back into his arms. The Prince sighed and murmured a little in his sleep. Maglor kissed his forehead softly, not wishing to wake him, only to express his gratitude that Legolas didn’t hate him for the part he played in Sauron’s games, the _willing_ part he played. Even asleep in his arms, he was a comfort to Maglor, and he held him close until he slept again. The night passed, and in the morning, they looked as if they had never been disturbed.

 

Translations:

_pen neth_ – young one  
 _Herdir_ – Master  
 _mûl nín_ – my slave  
 _mûl vain nín_ – my beautiful slave

**Note on Sauron’s name:** Aulendil is listed as one of Sauron’s names, and means ‘devotee of Aulë.’ Since Sauron is a Maiar who was once uncorrupted, and belonged to the people of Aulë, I like to imagine that this might well be his original name. As for him making Maglor use it, I don’t think he would want to hear Maglor beg him using the name Sauron, which means ‘abhorred one.’ ;)  



	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Nine

Over the next few weeks, something changed for Maglor. He had been alone with Sauron for so long, but now it was different. At first the dark lord seemed to have had enough of Legolas, and he left the other elf alone. Maglor was glad of it. He knew he could grow jealous of Legolas easily. Oh, it was a sick, twisted existence here – but there was no escape from it – and Maglor had given up long ago.

Despite this, Maglor was never able to be quite at peace with his situation. Sauron devised torments that kept him completely aware of what was being done to him. Sometimes he destroyed Maglor’s mind, only to watch while he healed. Maglor begged for Sauron to hurt him then, because awareness was the cruellest torture of all, but the dark lord just looked down on him with a kind of delight in his eyes, enjoying watching him plead. He was not kept alive for his own benefit, and sometimes he hungered for death, and begged for that. Seemingly everything he did pleased Sauron. It was as though he couldn’t help himself. It should be easy to hate him, but it wasn’t.

He was always there. However cruel and painful a Master he was, he never really left Maglor alone, not when it mattered. He thought back to the earliest days, when he first became Sauron’s prisoner, and he remembered the feelings he had then. Never alone. Legolas had just barely tasted it, but Maglor knew the feeling so well by now. The way that Sauron seemed to know when a limit had been reached. Sometimes it was almost as if he could have mercy. Oh, he could be comforting in his own way, and it became an encouragement to endurance. The need for it all to stop became twisted, turned into a need to endure whatever he subjected Maglor to. Limits were reached... and passed. Insanity never did come easily, but when it did Sauron was there with him. And he was there whenever Maglor came back to reality, holding him down, keeping him from the only escape there was. He would have taken it as a way out at times, in desperation, had Sauron not kept him from it. He was unforgiven anyway – what difference could it make?

The dark lord was capable of a sort of kindness at those times. Such tenderness, and how Maglor began to yearn for it. It was something Maglor desired more than death, but he could never beg for it, only earn it with his suffering. It was never much, and never quite enough, but Maglor would go through hell again and again just to experience his gentle kisses. To know that he had pleased Sauron so much was a reward beyond anything he could explain. It should be easy to love him, and it was.

The difference now was that when he would have been alone, he was with Legolas. He didn’t know if it was at the end of a day, or at the end of a week. Maglor had really stopped counting the days long ago, and now he measured his existence merely in periods of time. The young Prince held him while he cried, and listened to his maddened ramblings about being punished here for his crimes, and how much he both deserved and enjoyed it…

But then Sauron began to show an interest in Legolas. He took Legolas away time after time, leaving Maglor alone and by himself once more. He waited, with nothing to do but slip into reverie, for them to return. He wasn’t hurting the young Prince, that was certain, and really Legolas was obviously with child by now. Maglor didn’t think even Sauron would put his own child at risk. But still, there was something in his manner that suggested whatever happened to him wasn’t pleasant. Sauron had used him, that much was obvious. Maglor tried to encourage the young one to talk about it, but he was distant and silent, and soon Maglor gave up on him, saying that he was probably right not to confide in him. He didn’t trust Maglor, and really that was how it should be.

Soon he came to resent Legolas though. There was no acknowledgement of his existence anymore from the dark lord, and Maglor began to crave it. Jealousy took hold, and he began to ignore Legolas, concentrating instead on his own dreams. When he awoke he knew that Sauron had been with him, and somehow it made him shiver deliciously to know that Sauron had stolen from him in his sleep, even as he resented being cheated of his closeness.

Dreams. They were things that tried to speak to you, and Maglor’s dreams spoke to him. Often he dreamed of Sauron. The dark lord was never far from his thoughts in waking, and so it was in sleep. It was true that he had changed over the years… over the centuries. And his dreams contained a dark lord as cold and as terrible as reality. Truly, he had learned to enjoy his suffering. But when he awoke this time, it was to find the dark lord staring down at him with a question in his eyes.

“Well?” Sauron demanded immediately. Maglor wondered what the question was for, but not for long. Legolas was gone. He looked around him at the empty bed, and then quickly back at Sauron.

“I don’t know!” He replied hastily, in shock, not wanting to arouse the dark lord’s impatient anger. Sauron’s eyes glittered coldly. Maglor really didn’t know where the Prince had gone. Oh, it was obvious that Legolas had attempted an escape. Maglor sighed inwardly, he wouldn’t make it, surely he wouldn’t. A part of him was sorry, he did care about the young Prince after all, but Maglor also knew that had he encouraged Legolas to tell him his plans, then he would never even have got so far as to leave. Maglor looked back at his Master helplessly. He had told Legolas not to trust him, and deep inside he already knew Sauron would make him sorry for it.

“ _You_ , don’t know?” Sauron sneered, so that Maglor trembled before him. He sounded almost as if he had been waiting for this moment, as though he had been expecting it. Realisation hit him. He knew! Of course he knew, what secrets had he ever been able to keep from Sauron?

“He didn’t tell me,” Maglor began, hoping it would be enough. “B-but you can find him again, can’t you? And bring him back…” He spoke quickly, too quickly, and Sauron seemed to look at him without really listening. Sauron could find him, there was no doubt at all in Maglor’s mind. But this was not about Legolas’ escape, not really.

“You have disappointed me.” Maglor felt his heart lurch at Sauron’s accusation, and he raised himself up in the bed until he was on his knees. His hands reached out to the dark lord, wanting to reassure him, to show that he hadn’t, that he wouldn’t, couldn’t ever do such a thing. But he stopped. He hadn’t been given permission to touch. He shook his head.

“No…” The denial was instinctive, and he felt it with all his heart and soul. Why then, he wondered, did it sound so faint and weak?

“I think it is time for a lesson, _mûl nín_.” Yes, Sauron knew, and there was going to be no escape from it. Maglor had no doubt that whatever his Master did, it would teach him never to hide the truth again, and his first reaction was panic.

“No! Please, I’m sorry!” And he was sorry. He felt as though he had betrayed the dark lord, and somehow it hurt to think and to feel it. It hurt even more to have _him_ think it, and for a moment he hated Legolas, for coming between them in such a way.

“No. You are not sorry yet, but you will be, I can promise you that.” It was threatening, and seductive, and the inevitability stole Maglor’s need to escape. He sighed heavily, already feeling a strange kind of desire that he couldn’t really explain, even to himself. Sauron’s punishments were always cruel, but Maglor knew he deserved it, and he had missed the dark lord’s attention. Was that why he had done it? His warnings to the Prince had not been for Legolas at all, but for himself. After all, he had known really that it would come to this.

“ _Hîr nín_ ,” he breathed reverentially, already grateful. He moved from the bed and knelt at Sauron’s feet. Why did it feel so right to kneel before him? It was as though he belonged here. He looked up and he knew the answer to his own question. Sauron looked down on him coldly, his dark perfection was almost regal. Maiar. He could be a King or a God, and to Maglor he was those things and more. How could he _not_ worship such a flawless being?

“ _Hîr nín_ … _Herdir_ … Please, forgive me…” He spoke the words over and over again like a litany, knowing they were of no use, as he rested his hands on the cold, stone floor, and dared to kiss his Master’s feet. Fear and arousal had been one and the same for him for so long, and he only moaned hungrily when he felt Sauron cruelly taking hold of his hair to pull him to his feet.

“Up!” he commanded. They looked at each other. Sauron knew. He would have no mercy. And Maglor was thankful for it even as he wanted to scream.

Sauron dragged him along corridors and through chambers by his hair. He strode too fast for Maglor, so that when he finally stopped, Maglor was crying helplessly at having his hair pulled so viciously. His face was wet with tears when Sauron came to stand behind him, and he realised he was looking into a full-length mirror.

“Now look,” he commanded, holding Maglor’s head in his hands, stopping him from turning away. Maglor caught the eye of Sauron’s reflection and he couldn’t look away. It was so strange to see himself like this. He wasn’t as tall as Sauron, and the mirror seemed to emphasise that fact. He still had to look up to keep eye contact with Sauron, and he saw his Master’s hands moving over him as well as feeling it.

“You claim you haven’t disappointed me,” Sauron said, brushing his fingers over Maglor nipples and ribs, making him shiver in fear. His hands could be cruel, and he could sense a kind of suppressed violence. Sauron could break him so easily – he knew that. Maglor drew in a breath to answer, but then Sauron continued.

“Then what are you sorry for?” he asked with a kind of frightening patience, anticipating Maglor’s denial. Maglor caught his breath when the dark lord lazily brushed the tip of one finger over his erection, and he began to tremble. He knew Sauron somewhat after all this time – and he knew that the dark lord was angry. Only the fear of feeling his anger stopped Maglor from falling. He felt dizzy and weak, and still he couldn’t look away from his dark eyes. The eyes that always seemed to see directly into his soul.

“I… I don’t – ” he stammered fearfully, not really knowing what to say. Sauron’s powerfully deep voice spoke over his.

“You have allowed Legolas to keep secrets, even from you, when you know that I expected him to confide in you. You have more than disappointed me.” Maglor began to tremble even more now. This was more than an accusation. He sounded like a judge announcing his crimes, and Maglor wondered fitfully what the sentence would be. But then Sauron suddenly changed tack.

“But you are mine, are you not?” he asked pleasantly, as he brushed Maglor’s long hair away from his neck, uncovering an ear which he kissed lightly.

“Yes, _Herdir_ ,” Maglor gasped, grateful for the opportunity to say that he belonged to Sauron. He almost didn’t know what was coming. He deliberately ignored it while there was still time, as the dark lord’s lips left his ear and moved over his neck, touching him so lightly it nearly tickled.

“So obviously, this is a mistake of my own,” he murmured thoughtfully. “Perhaps you simply do not fear me enough.” He looked up suddenly then, into the mirror and into Maglor’s eyes. His hands grabbed Maglor’s wrists and trapped them at his sides. And it really was going to happen! Maglor cried out inarticulately before the change even began. Watching desperately, looking at Sauron in the mirror. The black hair and dark eyes that always seemed to capture the light. His skin was not so pale at the moment, and Maglor continued to look, knowing already that it was too late, but willing him not to change now – not in front of him like this…

“Please,” he managed finally, and Sauron smiled at him coldly. He really couldn’t help but please the dark lord, with everything he said and did, but there was no compassion. Sauron leaned into his neck as if to torment him and inhaled deeply. His eyes seemed to gleam with an inner, yellow light for a second before the impression was gone. And Maglor knew that was something else. Something just as frightening.

“Watch,” Sauron commanded, and Maglor whimpered as it began.

His Master had told him to watch, and although there was nothing more Maglor wanted to do than close his eyes, he found himself unable to disobey. First to change was the skin, it seemed to lose the small amount of colour it had until it was white. And this was not the deathly white of a corpse, but the almost transparency of some sea creatures. It was skin that never saw the light of day. Next were the eyes. Sauron continued to look at him, and Maglor screamed out, as those eyes grew bigger, becoming inky black pools of darkness in his face. They were expressionless and dead, insectile eyes. His long, black hair seemed to lose its luxurious texture until it hung around his face limply like tattered rags. His hands grew into claws that encircled Maglor around the waist. He could only look on as all this happened, frozen in horror at the sight of the monster that Sauron had become.

He screamed again when it moved; he couldn’t seem to think of it as ‘him’ anymore. It was darting and furtive as it leaned in to him. He tried to move away instinctively when its lipless mouth lowered to his neck, and he cried out breathlessly in disgust and revulsion. Sauron’s teeth were still there and it gave the lower part of his face the appearance of a skull. The claws tightened around him as if to remind him where he was, and who he was with. Sauron’s voice was in his mind then, and he listened gratefully.

_*Don’t forget who I am, Maglor. Watch me, and fear me. Remember this is a lesson you asked for.*_

His words calmed Maglor, despite their sinister meaning. And he relaxed a little in Sauron’s vice-like grip. But soon he was panting and petrified again when he saw the teeth. They seemed to grow from his upper jaw, and then suddenly Maglor was certain that they were not really teeth.

Out of all the punishments Sauron had visited on him, this was by far the worst. He had simply never been so terrified. He could hear a high-pitched wailing sound, and he was startled to find that it was coming from him. His mind screamed at him urgently – monster! But he couldn’t flee from it. Instead the words and orders of his Master whom he had obeyed for so long ensured that he couldn’t even try, that he couldn’t fight, and he couldn’t close his eyes. All he could do was watch helplessly, mortified, held in its cold grip, as it sank those terrible twin proboscises deeply into the skin of his neck.

He gasped; more from the shock of seeing it happen than the actual pain. And he was right about those things. They weren’t really teeth at all. He looked on in horrified fascination as his blood bubbled up inside them. They were transparent enough to show it, and then the swoon began. Was it possible to see and to know exactly what had hold of him, and yet still enjoy the feeling as it sucked and drank of his blood? Apparently so, because he sighed in pleasure.

_*You can close your eyes now*_ came the voice into his mind, slightly amused as always, and as if commanded, Maglor’s eyes fluttered closed. Only Sauron’s magic kept him conscious, and he moaned at every deep, rhythmic pull at his neck. He fancied he could almost feel the demand on his heart before it was over, and the cold and the claws retreated.

* * *

Standing still, holding Maglor in his arms, Sauron licked his lips, tasting the last remains of his prisoner’s blood. He looked into the mirror, and again for a fleeting moment his eyes gleamed with a golden fire. Then it was gone. He smirked when he saw that Maglor still had his eyes closed. He looked as though he could have fainted, and that Sauron was holding him up. But that wasn’t the truth. He was very much aware of everything around him. Sauron could feel it in the way he shook and trembled.

“Now you fear me, don’t you?” he asked, not really needing to hear the answer, but knowing that Maglor had to say it to him nevertheless. Maglor’s fear was all around them, he could sense it all over him – so delicious! It was like a drug to him. His orcs and uruk-hai would never fear him like this; they simply didn’t have enough imagination.

“Yes!” Maglor replied instantly, his eyes flying open. He seemed to relax a little when the evidence of his senses was confirmed, and he realised that Sauron was back to himself again. Sauron waited, enjoying his elf’s trembling as it continued. It was irresistible not to play with him a little.

“Say you are sorry, then,” he suggested, feeling Maglor tense suddenly because he hadn’t thought of it first. Oh, he was so beautiful like this!

“I’m sorry, _Hîr nín_ ,” he breathed immediately, looking at Sauron for acceptance and forgiveness, his eyes wide. Inwardly Sauron smiled; this particular lesson would last for a while.

“Good.” He waited until he felt Maglor relaxing against him, leaning back into him as if he thought it was all over. Sauron almost laughed. “Now all that remains is your punishment,” he continued. No one else would have been able to tell what that sentence did to Maglor, but Sauron knew. He felt it in the way he jumped a little, heard it in the slight intake of breath, saw it by the way Maglor almost closed his eyes.

“Choose it for yourself, _mûl nín_ ,” he ordered then, watching Maglor in the mirror as he tried to think of a suitable punishment for what he had done.

“I could sing for you, _Herdir_ ,” he suggested eventually in a timid voice, as though singing were the last thing he wanted to do. It probably was. He was good at choosing his own punishment, which was probably why Sauron had him do it so often.

“Yes, I believe that is fitting,” Sauron said in agreement. “It will remind you of what you are, and what I expect.”

 

Translations:

_Herdir_ – Master  
 _Hîr nín_ – my Lord  
 _mûl nín_ – my slave  



	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Ten

How long had it been? How many hours, or maybe it had already been a day or two? Maglor didn’t know the answer. Time had no meaning here; there was only the need to get through it somehow, to endure it. He would have laughed at the idea of humiliation. He was beyond that by now, although it seemed to amuse his Master to see him like this.

He sang. He had already been through all the songs he knew, and now he made them up for himself. But all he seemed to be able to come up with was mournful and sad. He invented songs full of melancholy words, and melodies that expressed his true longing for freedom and forgiveness. It _was_ fitting. But whoever he sang to didn’t answer him, and his own voice was the only company he had.

Alone, he sang into the dark silence ceaselessly. Sauron would know if he stopped – he didn’t know how, and the price he would pay for falling silent was too terrible. He shivered at an almost forgotten memory. The first and only time he had stopped singing while in here. When he was left alone for hours, and his voice was cracked and broken – a mockery of what it should have been. And Sauron had returned, to drag him away and throw him into a cell. But he hadn’t been alone…

He was left there with the other prisoners for weeks – ignored and waiting in vain for Sauron to return and claim him. A prison cell full of frightened human males was no place for an elf. He discovered that quickly. Sauron didn’t save him; it had been the price he paid for not co-operating. The other prisoners knew he was not really one of them, and they took pleasure not just in raping and defiling him, but also in _spoiling_ him. Whereas the dark lord was usually subtle, they were brutal and animalistic. They hacked off his hair with knives and used it to bind his hands while they took their pleasure from him, carved their initials into his skin, only laughing when he screamed and cried.

He knew with many of them their fear drove them to it, and he begged for mercy from them sometimes with hope – some of them were not so uncivilised as they tried to make him believe. Every now and again it worked, but whoever was kind to him was the next prisoner to be replaced. Through all of it that was the worst thing; knowing that he envied them their place. They would soon be dead – but even then, Maglor knew _he_ wouldn’t be allowed to leave. And he was right. As the prisoners were taken away to whatever merciful fate they didn’t deserve, others came to take their place, while he was left there, seemingly forgotten. Eventually, the orcs had taken him away at Sauron’s orders. He had been starved, bleeding, violated, more dead than alive, and he had known that he would do anything not to go through that again.

So now he sang. He lay on the floor of his prison, exhausted and used up. But he carried on even though his voice was almost gone, and his throat was burning and sore. He carried on even though he longed for sleep and was desperate for water. Sauron had left him water, but he couldn’t stop to drink it – he knew that. From his place he stared at the golden bowl hungrily. So close to him, all he had to do was reach out and take it. It was as if Sauron wanted to test him. He always left Maglor with a temptation to stop. But since that time he never took it, however much he wanted to. One day he knew that the dark lord would leave him here long enough that he would be willing to pay the price to drink, and the knowledge made him shudder. Would it be this time?

He dipped his fingers into the water while he sang and swirled them around longingly. Suddenly, he remembered a much earlier, carefree time, before the Oath, swimming with his brothers in a river. Valinor. It had been a gloriously hot day, and the cool water had felt so good – like sin, before he knew what it was. He lifted his hand away, enjoying watching the water drip from his fingers and back into the bowl. It was a beautiful sound! He brought his wetted fingers up, trying to return some moisture to his lips. Somehow a little of the water got into his mouth; he tasted it on the tip of his tongue. It was so sweet and cool, _life giving_ , and whatever his consciousness might think about death, the instinct to survive was still strong in him. Maglor almost stopped to lick his lips before he realised what that would mean. He pulled his hand away from his mouth and looked at it for a moment in horror. Violently he pushed himself back with his legs and his feet, putting as much space between him and the bowl of water as he could. What was he thinking? It wasn’t worth it! Yet…

Now the door opened, letting in a little light that glinted on the bars of his prison, and Maglor pulled himself unsteadily to his feet as Sauron entered the room. He took the few small stumbling steps to the edge of his cage, the water forgotten now, and rested his hands and his forehead on the cool metal bars. Even the floor was made up of bars, and they hurt his feet after so long, but he hardly noticed it now. His voice grew stronger as he watched the dark lord, but Sauron didn’t even look up at him. He sang for his Master, following his progress across the room, moving around his golden prison so that he could continue to face him.

Sauron sat down before a desk and leaned back, closing his eyes. Maglor sang to him, trying to ignore the dry and parched feeling, trying to make his voice sound as sweet as it did at first, even though it was impossible. Was it a minute or an hour before Sauron finally looked up at him? He didn’t know, but he felt his heart jump when the dark lord acknowledged him at last. Sauron walked over to the cage as unseen servants lowered it once more to the floor.

Sauron opened the door of the cage. It wasn’t locked; there was no need for it to be locked. Maglor cried while he sang, but still he was not given permission to stop. The dark lord reached out and gently brushed his tears away, the tears he really couldn’t spare, and then he spoke.

“Enough.”

Maglor fell silent at last, and to his knees, still crying. The dark lord held fingers to his lips that he had dipped in the water, and Maglor suckled on them mindlessly, in desperate need of moisture for his cracked lips and dry throat. After all this time, even such a small amount of water tasted like heaven, and he couldn’t help himself, couldn’t stop himself doing exactly what Sauron wanted. It was a pleasure to please him.

When the water was gone and Sauron withdrew his fingers Maglor finally looked up. “Thank you, _Herdir_ ,” he whispered. It hurt even to do that now, and he winced at the raw pain in his throat.

The dark lord looked down at him for a moment thoughtfuly, then he grabbed hold of Maglor’s wrist. “Come with me,” he ordered brusquely and then turned away as Maglor got quickly to his feet to follow.

They walked in silence for a while, but when they began to descend stone stairs to the cells, Maglor pulled back a little. The air was musty and damp down here, and the infrequent torches that burned in sconces on the walls only accentuated the gloom. Sauron said nothing, but dragged Maglor along by his wrist until they reached a heavy wooden door set into the stone wall. It was familiar, he recognised this place, and it was then that Maglor cried out.

“No!” he began in pure dread. “Don’t leave me in there, _Hîr nín_ , please!” Sauron turned to face him. Dimly, Maglor realised that despite all the time he had been singing, he would still be able to scream.

“Silence! You brought this on yourself.” Maglor wanted to say that he hadn’t stopped singing, that he had tried so hard to please him, but for a moment he couldn’t speak. More than anything he wanted to feel the gentleness Sauron was capable of when Maglor did exactly as he was told. Why was the dark lord doing this to him? He had done what Sauron wanted, hadn’t he? He had also told Maglor to be quiet but in his desperate fear he realised there was very little left for him to lose.

“Please,” he begged, reaching out, daring to curl his hands in the dark lord’s robes. There was no reaction, and Maglor was only encouraged by it. He moved closer, pressing and rubbing his body against Sauron wantonly and resting his head on the dark lord’s shoulder while he stood rigid and unmoved. He felt his own desire beginning to burn in him, and he wanted Sauron to take him, however cruelly. All he wanted was to feel him now. “I need– ” Sauron interrupted him then, taking hold of his shoulders to push him back and away.

“Oh, I know what you need. I always know. But you have made me angry, haven’t you?” And then Maglor remembered what the punishment had been for, and he knew that Sauron considered he still hadn’t paid for it yet. He had nothing to tell but the truth.

“Yes,” he whispered lifelessly.

“So how can I reward you then?” the dark lord asked simply, and although the familiar amusement was there, he also sounded as though he could be sorry. Maglor felt worse for hearing that than for anything Sauron might do to him.

“Forgive me, _Herdir_ ,” he breathed in apology, forgetting completely what awaited him. Sauron reached out to hold his face in one hand and looked deeply into his eyes.

“One day, Maglor, you will manage to arouse my pity, instead of my regret.” Maglor caught his breath. Sauron smiled at him, and for a moment he thought he was saved. He should have known better, but hope was something Sauron cruelly encouraged in him. “But it isn’t today,” Sauron said, letting his hand drop away, and as his hope died, Maglor remembered his jealousy, because he knew that Sauron _would_ leave him here. Surely he had found Legolas in the meantime and brought him back? They would be alone…

“Why him?” Maglor asked bitterly, unable to stop the words coming out, raising his voice so that it hurt again. Finally making real the jealousy that he barely even acknowledged to himself. “Why does it have to be him?” He was surprised to hear the dark lord laugh then, astonished to see real humour gleaming in his eyes. Sauron touched his face again gently, caressing, seeming to consider something.

“Oh, you don’t want _that_ , _mûl nín_ , trust me.” His hand was gentle, but his intense scrutiny made it difficult for Maglor to breathe. He wanted to step back, but he didn’t dare move. “That is not for you,” he said at last, as if he had made up his mind, and something in the tone of his voice made Maglor shiver suddenly, as if someone had stepped on his grave. He felt real fear then for Legolas – what did Sauron have planned for the young one that was so awful he wouldn’t make Maglor endure it?

“What will happen to him?” he asked in a faint whisper, not really wanting to know but having to ask anyway.

“To _him_?” Sauron regarded him darkly. He came a step closer and closed the distance he had put between them. “ _You_ will never escape from me. Never.” Maglor closed his eyes at the feeling of Sauron so close to him, the desire he felt earlier coming back instantly at Sauron’s words as he continued speaking. “You understand very well what that means. When you suffer at my hands – that is your fate forever. When your mind wants to give up, but can’t – that is your eternity. When you awake to the pain of my pleasure, with my seed inside you – that is how you will begin every day of your immortality.” Maglor trembled at the pronouncement, but he couldn’t help moaning at the picture Sauron painted for him. The dark lord’s arms closed around him and he surrendered to the embrace gladly, forgetting everything but the need to feel Sauron inside him again – to please him.

“No one and nothing will save you from me, Maglor.” He was barely aware of Sauron reaching around him to unlock the door of the cell, but when he heard the click of the lock his eyes flew open and he found himself looking into Sauron’s eyes. “I suggest you devote some thought as to why you are here,” he continued, more coldly. “You have time. And ask yourself if you truly deserve it,” he finished cryptically. With that said, he opened the door and pushed Maglor inside before closing and locking it behind him.

Maglor banged on the door immediately, begging Sauron to let him out, but there was no reaction. He let his palms come to a rest on the door, laid his cheek against the wood, and closed his eyes for a moment, seeing the dark lord in his mind’s eye. He was probably already walking away. He took a deep shaky breath and turned to face the rest of the cell, and the prisoners. He looked around him and the breath caught in his throat…

* * *

Closing his eyes, he rested his palms against the door and laid his forehead on the warm wood, unaware that at the same moment, his prisoner was doing almost the very same thing on the other side. When he raised his head and lifted his hands, he was slightly surprised to find they were shaking. The dark lord breathed deliberately, remembering the way Maglor had pressed against him – inviting, warm, tempting – the very ideal of submission. How he wanted to take advantage of it! He raised an eyebrow at the effect it had on him, and then looked at the door accusingly. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head, and then strode away back down the corridor, once more composed, leaving Maglor to his fate.

Orcs, and even uruk-hai kept away from him. Like rats, they seemed to sense his fierce temper as he walked back into the more habitable areas of his fortress. He looked as if he knew where he was going. He strode purposefully, and with authority – it was not in him to appear any other way. But in truth he wandered aimlessly, still wondering why putting Maglor in that place had affected him. In all these years it was only the second time Sauron had left him there, but the elf deserved it. He had no place for a slave who could act against his wishes, however slightly. After all this time, his disobedience had actually surprised Sauron. He might even go so far as to say it _hurt_ him. He would learn his lesson. Perhaps he would even follow Sauron’s suggestion and use the time to think about his situation.

He found himself at the door to Maglor’s room, and he walked straight in before he realised that of course, Maglor wouldn’t be there this time. He cursed Maglor for what he had done, and hoped he was being entertained. By the time Sauron let him out he would be miserably grateful to be his Master’s plaything. Oh yes, the elf would be absolutely desperate to do anything he desired. Sauron looked forward to testing him. He turned to leave, but then the young Prince caught his eye. He looked Legolas over quickly. Yes, he was asleep, no doubt exhausted after his earlier exploits. Sauron smiled, he knew very well what had happened earlier; he _had_ ordered it after all, with the strictest warning that he should in no way be damaged of course. Let that be a lesson to _him_. He was curled up with a pillow as if he missed something, and there _was_ an empty space beside him. The dark lord glided closer in the darkness, watching the easy rise and fall of the blond elf’s chest, listening to the even sound of his breathing in the silence. He studied the swell of his belly. Soon it would be time.

Despite his anger, he realised that the need to punish Maglor had worked out quite well. Sauron needed him to be out of the way. And along with everything else, what he had told this one earlier was punishment enough. The look in his eyes had been well worth doing without his favourite for a while. He reached out to touch Legolas, only one thought in his mind – _soon_ – and he unconsciously licked his lips. Legolas called out something in his sleep and then Sauron retreated silently, deciding not to wake him after all, a sadistic smile on his lips. Yes. Soon.

* * *

Keeping so still and quiet was one of the hardest things he had ever done. He thought that the sound of alarm had given him away, but he hadn’t been able to keep it in when the dark lord came towards him. He felt a terrible foreboding for a moment that the dark lord intended to kill him. He had come closer, tall and overwhelming, blotting out the light that fell in through the open door, and there had been the strangest thing about his eyes. They burned, seeming to give off their own light, an intense look of blood lust and hunger. He looked different, almost like an animal. And Legolas had nearly screamed, but Sauron seemed to believe he was dreaming.

Legolas remained frozen and silent for several minutes after Sauron had left him alone, not daring to believe he was really gone, only his slight trembling betraying the fact that he was, in fact, awake. He clutched the pillow to him closely. He didn’t know where Maglor was, and it was strange and frightening to be here without him, even if they hadn’t seemed so close lately. Sauron had said that he wouldn’t see Maglor for some time, and Legolas felt terrible for it. He remembered what Sauron told him, and he shivered.

Of course, first had been his big plan, ‘the escape’. Legolas smiled bitterly – some escape it had been. He relaxed and let his mind drift back, trying to come to terms with the day and make some sense out of it. Trying to deal with his guilt. He hadn’t known what would happen, he told himself. He couldn’t have known…

 

Translations:

_Herdir_ – Master  
 _Hîr nín_ – my Lord  
 _mul nín_ – my slave  



	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincere thanks go to ______ for helping me out with the word. I needed something for captain, and _____ suggested this, an amalgamation of two words that means literally lord-uruk.

Chapter Eleven

Often he awoke before Maglor. The older elf always seemed to be tired and sleepy in the mornings, as if he hadn’t really rested. That was, if it was really morning. There was no way to tell the time here, and there was no daylight. Legolas still trusted his internal clock though. And he believed they more or less still slept at night and awoke in the morning.

It was easy to slip away while Maglor slept. He stole some of the clothes that Sauron liked Maglor to dress in. They weren’t much, but better than nothing. He felt a little apprehensive when he had to tear the tunic to fit over him. He was much bigger now, and he wondered if he would survive out there, if _they_ would. He remembered what it was like, or at least he thought so.

He gathered the few things he had prepared. The waterskin he had spent long, laborious hours making while Maglor was busy with the dark lord; it was made from the occasional stolen tarred leather cup that was brought in with their meal. The food he had secreted over the last few days when it had been easy to keep his distance from Maglor, feigning the desire to be alone. Although it hadn’t really been pretence.

Over the last few weeks he had come to pity Maglor, but he also despised him. He would have loved to tell Maglor what he planned, to escape _with_ him, to free them both of the dark lord and his torments. But he doubted that Maglor really wanted to escape. In fact, he suspected that if he told Maglor what he was doing, the other elf would betray him somehow. _He_ would not stay here that long. To do so was unthinkable. He had grown up a little after realising what his fate would be were he forced to stay here, and he couldn’t allow himself to turn into that. To become as dependent on Sauron as Maglor was.

Yes, it had to be now. For some reason, he had been Sauron’s exclusive company over the last week or so, and the dark lord’s strange influence was at work on him in that time. At first he was terrified of what Sauron would do to him, what he could do. And he trembled to be in his arms, submissive and scared, remembering the healing of his mind after the cruel torture. He couldn’t go through that again.

But the dark lord seemed to ignore him most of the time, busy as he was with giving orders to the uruk-hai, looking into the magical stone he had for hours at a time as if he was addicted to it. Indeed, the strange black globe with its swirling depths was never far from the dark lord’s sight. He was always watching. Always waiting. And all he required most of the time was that Legolas stand silent and unmoving in a corner, awaiting him should he desire anything. There were punishments for the smallest things. Fidgeting restlessly in his place, not being quick enough when the dark lord wanted something from him. Legolas soon learned to anticipate what Sauron wanted, and he felt an awful gratification when he earned a smile or a kiss from him. When he was alone he was disgusted with himself. He knew that he was being trained, and he knew it was working.

Yet when he was with Sauron, his desires took over. And he found that in some sick way he enjoyed being on his knees before him, pleasuring him. Even fetching and carrying for him held a kind of pleasure in subservience. He did understand Maglor, only too well, and that was why he pitied him. When he was with Sauron, he didn’t want to escape himself, and it became more and more difficult to remember why he was preparing to leave. Sometimes, he even felt like he _wanted_ to confess, and that terrified him – only his fear of the consequences kept him from it. No, he absolutely could not afford to wait. To wait would be to give up completely… like him. Legolas pitied him, but there was nothing he could do. How could he save Maglor from himself?

It felt bad to be leaving him here, but maybe Maglor was right and it was what he deserved. Legolas hadn’t really listened to the stories about him when he was younger, preferring instead to dream about the day he would be able to guard Greenwood’s borders with his older brothers, and so for all he knew Maglor’s crimes might be that bad. He was sure that he remembered something about an oath, and that he and his brother Maedhros were notorious for something. He stopped suddenly, and looked at Maglor sadly, realising that he was giving himself a rationale for leaving him behind. _Nobody deserves this_. He swallowed, trying to rid himself of the lump in his throat, and kissed the other elf gently on the forehead as he slept, whispering his apologies for leaving him alone once more. Maglor had simply been trapped here too long – it was over for him. And Legolas was sorry, but he couldn’t sacrifice himself to make Maglor feel better about his fate.

Breaking his line of thought he checked that he had everything he needed. Or rather, everything useful he had been able to lay his hands on. He was dismayed to be heading out without a weapon, but once he reached the safety of some trees – normal trees – he would surely be able to make himself something. Part of his training back home had involved learning to survive when he had nothing. So making crude weapons, finding water, hunting – none of that would be too difficult if he could just reach the end of the hot, dry, and acrid land that made up Sauron’s realm.

Maybe, and at this next thought his heart filled with hope, maybe he could even get back to Greenwood eventually and be reunited with his brothers? Thinking that, Legolas truly smiled for the first time in months. Home. It was such a potent dream after all this time.

Feeling relieved to at last be on his way, he sneaked out, hoping once more that he would not run into any of Sauron’s orcs or uruk-hai while he was finding his way. In contrast to his wild attempts to flee before, this time he crept down the corridors and hallways, hiding behind corners, listening for enemies. He was concentrating so steadily on not being discovered he wondered how he could have let the emptiness of the place disturb him before. It was a relief to him now, and he thanked the Valar for his accurate memory when he came to the great doors that marked the exit from Sauron’s vast fortress.

Quietly, he let himself out, not allowing the massive doors to open any wider than they had to for him to slip through them. And then he faced the land before him. This time he knew what to expect, and it didn’t dishearten him as much as before. He wasn’t naked, and he had makeshift shoes on his feet. It would be difficult, but already he was sure he could make it. If he could only get a head start before he was discovered missing. He began to walk.

For the first couple of hours it was easy going. The landscape was as barren and deadly as he remembered it. The huge volcano made the air hot and heavy, and there was the smell of sulphur all around. But he didn’t lose heart. He breathed carefully and shallowly, taking his time, conserving his energy and strength. In no time at all he passed the woods he had encountered last time, and although the promise of shelter, cool shade and sweet air called to him, he knew better, and avoided it. After a while though, his own weight began to slow him down, and he rested his hands on his belly, feeling the heat all the more because of the life he was carrying inside him.

Then, as time passed, Legolas began to worry. Nothing seemed to be changing around him, although he had surely been walking for most of the day. Eventually he saw a large outcropping of rock coming up in front of him and he made his way towards it over the scorched and blackened earth. Tired and out of breath, he scrambled up it, hoping that at last he would see to the end of the wasteland. Hoping that he would be able to judge the amount of distance there was left. It would spur him on.

He finally reached the top, gasping and out of breath, and he sat down on the ground before embarking on the last few metres, to drink from his improvised flask of water. He rested for a little while, resting his hands on his belly as he had begun to do often when he was alone. He felt one of them moving and it made him smile. Perhaps they knew he was drinking water? Suddenly he didn’t feel quite as alone, and he was grateful for it. He needed to find somewhere safe and comfortable soon though – for their sake.

Regaining his feet, he climbed up the final steep incline to the top and stood staring out at the view. “No…” he whispered faintly.

Before him was Mordor in all its breathtaking entirety – the land that the dark lord had desired to build his home in – and it suited him. It was dark, forbidding and murderous. And for as far as the eye could see, it still didn’t end. Legolas fell back down, the hard ground jolting him so that he cried out, but he couldn’t take his eyes away from the vista in front of him. The panoramic view was all around him. If he looked back he could see where he had come from, the tall spires and turrets of Barad-Dur in the distance, and the isolated woods that Sauron kept close by. He must be looking at miles and miles of hot, dusty, unforgiving terrain. It would take days, if not weeks to cross this! The hope that he had when he first set out completely deserted him, and he simply sat for a while in shock, not knowing what to do now. He couldn’t go back, and yet what hope was there of getting to the end of that vast expanse alive? None. It was like crossing a desert with a cup full of water. Impossible.

Still, he realised he had better do something other than sit here, waiting to die. What choice did he have but to carry on? If he knew one thing, it was that he would rather die than go back, and if that was the way it had to be then so be it. They were brave thoughts, surely fitting for the Prince of an elven realm. But then he cradled his swollen belly once more, and he began to cry, the harsh ground beneath his feet becoming soft and inviting through the blur of his tears. He made his way back down the slope blindly, grateful for his sure feet and easy balance, even in his condition, that stopped him from falling when he could no longer see properly.

As he neared the bottom though, his ears picked up a distant sound. It was a strange sound, and he strained to hear properly. It was rhythmic – marching! Legolas blinked his tears away impatiently and stared back along the path he had travelled. He was still at enough height to see them. Around six uruk-hai were tracking him, following his trail across the all too revealing dust-covered rock steadily. He panicked. He couldn’t be taken back alive!

He almost fell the rest of the way, so great was his haste to put some distance between him and his pursuers. He slid down the remaining slope using his hands and his feet, throwing up clouds of dust and unsettling tiny rocks and stones that fell with him. He grazed his hands but he didn’t even realise it, and as soon as he was back on the ground, he ran.

He ran as though his life depended on it – and perhaps it did. Taking deeper breaths than he had before in his wild, desperate panic, so that he coughed and spluttered, his body rebelling against the cruel, burning air as he ran on. He held his belly while he ran, trying to take some of the weight from his aching back. And all the while he knew there was no hope. He had already seen it. There was nowhere to run to.

He stumbled over an unseen rock, and went sprawling, ripping the flimsy fabric of the clothes he wore, the rocks tearing viciously at the skin of his shins and knees. He was back up in moments and running again, not noticing the blood that made his trail even clearer.

It went on and on, and Legolas knew he was slowing down, but he couldn’t ask his body for any more. The sound of the booted feet behind him grew louder; it wasn’t a march, but a steady run. That was how they had caught up with him, he thought vaguely. He looked behind him, and he thought he could just see them in the distance. And if he could see them, it wouldn’t be long before they could see him, he realised. Frightened, he looked around him for shelter, but there was nothing. Only the land that he knew wouldn’t stop. He should give up, and conserve his strength for what they might do to him. For what _he_ might do, but something in him wouldn’t let him rest.

Before long he had slowed to what amounted to a fast walk. Oh, he still ran, but his strides were not long enough, and it was a little more than a jog. He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs and every breath he took burned inside his chest. He had a deep pain in his side that was his body’s way of telling him to stop, but how could he? The light began to fade quickly, making it difficult to see where he was putting his feet, and finally, he fell again. This time he didn’t get up. He looked back, and they were so close he could see their faces. He crawled on mindlessly in sheer terror. They would take him back – back there… to him.

Crawling over the sharp stones, he finally felt the damage he had done to his hands and knees earlier, and every inch of ground he gained caused him pain. But he carried on until he found himself staring at a pair of booted feet. He closed his eyes, admitting to himself that it really was over, and turned to face his captors.

He half sat up on the ground, his weight on his hands, and looked around him fearfully, still gasping for breath. There were six of them. The leader was before him, and they muttered to each other as they looked down on him in their strange, guttural language. He caught his name in their conversation – and he looked sharply at the uruk-hai that had uttered it. They all laughed at him for that – their laughter sounded like a collection of grunts and snorts – and the leader looked at him interestedly, asking a question of the one Legolas had his eyes on. When he answered, the leader reached out a hand to touch Legolas’ belly, and Legolas sat up properly, so that he could slap the hand away. The leader sniggered then, and looked around at the others as if showing off in some way.

It came closer, and Legolas found himself leaning as far back as he could without actually lying on the ground. Its warm, stale breath wafted over him, so that he turned his face away in disgust, but he looked back when it spoke – because it spoke to him. Two simple words, but they were enough to make him shake in fear, suddenly realising that this could be more severe than simply being dragged back to face Sauron.

“Elf,” it said, pausing for a moment in confusion as if trying to remember the other word it wanted to say. Then it brightened. “Mine.” It watched Legolas to make sure that it had got the word right, and it seemed pleased. Legolas looked back, feeling the word in his entire body. His eyes were wide, not wanting to believe what he had just heard as the other uruk-hai chuckled darkly around him, reminding him there was no escape.

He trembled in revulsion rather than fear as the uruk-hai placed a single large hand around the back of his neck to lift him into a sitting position. Legolas immediately grabbed hold of its hand and tried to prise its fingers away, attempting to free himself of its grip. When it began to uncover itself he realised what was happening, and he snapped viciously with a frightened snarl, the clicking sound of his teeth loud in the space between them. It wouldn’t get that from him, at least. Not now, not ever.

The uruk-hai reacted by moving back slightly, and Legolas was gratified with that. Its other hand came close to his mouth, and Legolas bit down hard on one of its fingers, keeping eye contact, letting it know exactly what he would do. The uruk-hai simply laughed, and then it spoke again.

“Little wolf.” A couple of the others laughed appreciatively, those that understood the words. Not satisfied with that, the uruk-hai helpfully translated his simple joke for the rest, and soon they were all laughing and jostling each other as Legolas let go of its finger, noting with some pleasure that he had actually drawn blood, even if the leader didn’t seem to feel it.

It reached out to touch his belly again, and again Legolas swiped its hand away, but this time he didn’t get away with it. The uruk-hai behind him came closer to hold him down, and although he fought, he was no match for their strength. Finally the leader moved his hands over Legolas, touching him, and them. The children moved inside him restlessly as if they were trying to get away too. “Little wolf,” it said again, and Legolas had the disturbing impression it wasn’t talking to him this time.

He almost didn’t care though. They were forcing him to lie on his back, something he rarely did anymore simply because it was too uncomfortable. The weight pressed down upon him, pinning him to the ground more thoroughly than an army of Sauron’s servants could. He tugged at the hands that held him desperately, only wanting to be allowed to sit up, or lie on his side, and ease the pain in his back, but they wouldn’t let him go.

Legolas closed his eyes and twisted his head, as the uruk-hai began to mutter amongst themselves again. Again he heard his own name, but this time he didn’t acknowledge it. After a while they fell silent, and the hands left his belly. He screamed when it began to tear his clothes away with its clawed hands, but to no avail. He struggled, biting and snapping at those in reach, attempting to scratch the ones who held him, but it was no use. He became still, realising he was a sport to them, and when he was exposed to their eyes, the leader began to touch him, intimately. There was no pleasure in it for Legolas, and his body simply refused to react to the touch of the leader. It turned his head, and Legolas opened his eyes to look at it.

“Elf. Beg,” it said, obviously giving him some kind of order, and Legolas replied immediately.

“I will not.” It stared at him blankly, not comprehending, until Legolas shook his head vehemently. “No.” Then it smiled nastily. It understood that word.

“Yes,” it gave him in answer.

He gasped when another two of the uruk-hai held his legs, pushing them up so that he was completely exposed to the leader in front of him. It came closer still, and began to rub itself against him, over his entrance, spreading the lubricating fluid it secreted all over him. What was happening suddenly became more real then.

“No,” he called out in fear, trying desperately to get away, but it was impossible. The uruk-hai simply looked at him as it carried on with its preparation.

“Yes.” It said again, and Legolas cried then.

“Please…” he cried out desperately, unable to keep it in. He knew the uruk-hai, after all, and he knew what this meant. It looked confused for a moment, as if thinking, and then it smiled.

“Good,” and Legolas sobbed, unable to keep up his defiance in the face of what was about to happen to him.

He remembered how it had felt before in his delirium, how almost unbearable it had been, and he knew that to be raped here by one of these would be to be murdered. He almost didn’t care, but then he had to; he had more than just himself to think about. Suddenly he was more fearful for his children than himself. He looked around him, feeling the hopelessness of his situation. He wanted a way out, and in his distress he wished that the dark lord were here to put a stop to what was happening. He was sickened and disgusted at his own thoughts, but what else would save him? The brutality would kill his children, even if it didn’t kill him.

But then the uruk-hai didn’t seem intent on violently taking him at all. It began to prepare him, taking time and care to ensure that the fluid it secreted was all over him. It pushed a finger into him, spreading the fluid around. And for at least a minute everything stopped. Legolas looked at it, a shocked gasp escaping him, and in its eyes he saw a restraint he wouldn’t have believed the beast was capable of. Instead of forcing him, it waited. Only when Legolas’ body relaxed did it move again.

He would have found it easier to deal with the beast’s violence than this, this unnatural gentleness. Its breath was raspy as it fought to control itself and its lust, so that Legolas remained on edge, waiting for the moment when the beast would finally snap and hurt him. The preparation for what was to come became a torture in and of itself. Its fingers moved inside him, rubbing against him so that every now and again Legolas moaned. It didn’t mean to pleasure him, he could see that in its eyes, and every time its finger brushed against him just there it was an accident. He closed his eyes, and he seemed to feel its movements even more keenly.

It took its time, until Legolas was begging incoherently for it to stop, but it ignored him. When its fingers finally left him, it positioned itself and waited for a moment, so that Legolas could feel girth of it. Legolas opened his eyes then, and he looked at it, still capable of denying the horror.

“No…” he said. It was almost fully evening now, and its eyes gleamed with a feral light in the dusk.

“Yes,” came the reply, as before, and then it was pushing into him.

At first it seemed easy to take. It happened so slowly, but then it couldn’t be slowly enough. Just as he thought he had adjusted to the intrusion, it pushed a little deeper, seeming to enjoy the way he gasped and cried out. Their eyes locked together, and it didn’t stop then until he felt the skin of its thighs against his. He didn’t dare to move, didn’t dare to feel any more than he had to. He gasped at the foul air, taking tiny little panting breaths at the feeling of the beast fully inside him, almost as if he didn’t dare to breathe.

The other uruk-hai closed around them now, so that Legolas couldn’t see past them. It was really getting dark now, and they were like great hulking shapes blocking out the dim light that was still in the sky. The light that was still left shone on yellowed beast-like eyes, sharpened claws and misshapen teeth.

He forced himself to relax. The beast was deep inside him, and he would only hurt himself now – and the children. So he didn’t fight when they began to touch him, almost as if they were curious. He didn’t cry out or move away when they sniffed at his hair and licked at his ears. He could sense the beast though, still holding back, and he wondered why it hadn’t started yet. What was it waiting for?

Closing his eyes, he tried to will his mind away, but then the voices intruded. Coarse mutterings that he couldn’t understand, but then there was a single sharp word and all was quiet. Legolas opened his eyes and saw the uruk-hai all staring at him, at something in particular. He looked down and then even the short, shallow breaths he was taking stopped. A single, glistening drop of white fluid stood out on the left side of his chest. It had leaked from his nipple, where it still remained, and the uruk-hai were fascinated with it.

So was Legolas. He hadn’t known this would occur, and seeing it made the reality of what was happening to his body all the more frightening. For the first time he realised that there would be a birth. He tried to remember all the things he had ever heard about it. Not that it would necessarily apply to him, but it wasn’t a comfort anyway. Pain. That was the only thing he remembered, the only important thing. Giving birth hurt enough to make you scream, sometimes enough to kill you.

One of the uruk-hai leaned over him, lowering its face to his chest while he looked on in stunned horror. He saw its tongue as it snaked out towards him. Black, thick, and disgusting. Strings of saliva hung from it, and he wanted to retch, but he was held still and made to relax by the violation of his body. It licked at his nipple, and then it looked up at the others, a ghastly rendition of a smile on its twisted features.

Then he felt pressure. The uruk that had tasted him had taken hold of his nipple with its thumb and forefinger. Suddenly it squeezed him mercilessly and Legolas yelped, wishing that the harsh treatment hadn’t been successful. Instead, he saw another drop of milk emerge, and then rest on the uruk-hai’s finger. It spoke to the leader – that same word again – and received a reply that sounded like an affirmative. It must have been, because now the uruk-hai held its finger to Legolas mouth. He closed his lips tightly, but a hand closed around his face, pushing in his cheeks so that he couldn’t help opening his mouth for it.

He told himself that he couldn’t taste it – but he did. He told himself that there was nothing to be scared of – but there was. And when he began to tense up, he felt the beast still inside him, and he reminded himself to relax, telling himself that it would soon be over – but it wasn’t.

Now the leader spoke to him again. And he recognised the word. The other uruk-hai had spoken it. It must be the beast’s name. He almost laughed at the utter absurdity of being told to call it by name, but then he was in no position to laugh, he felt that with every breath.

“Speak. _Shakhuruk_.”

“No.”

“Yes.” The uruk-hai ground its hips against him cruelly, chuckling when Legolas made a sound somewhere between a deep breath and a cry. He held his breath at the sensation of being filled so completely, owned so thoroughly, and then it spoke again.

“ _Shakhuruk_. Speak.” He wanted to refuse again, but from the time it had taken to get this far, he knew it would wait. If he gave in, co-operated, then perhaps it would be over more quickly. He looked back into its eyes, and he thought secretly that although they were fearsome, the uruk-hai were quite stupid.

“ _Sha-khu-ruk_ ,” Legolas said hesitantly, trying to emulate the way the uruk-hai had spoken the unfamiliar word, and the uruk-hai’s gaze clouded with lust and victory. It growled, its equivalent of a moan, and now it started.

It stopped after one thrust, waiting, until Legolas said the word again. And it became a pattern. Every time he said the word it hurt him, but he knew he couldn’t stop.

He called out the word desperately, wanting it to be over, and he could feel the uruk-hai getting closer every time. When it happened it was painful, and too much. Legolas screamed as the massive girth of the uruk-hai seemed to grow bigger and harder inside him, until he was sure he would be ripped apart by it. It called out in its own tongue, covering Legolas body completely, so that his hands rested on its shoulders and he found his face pushed into its chest as it thrusted once, finally, deep inside him, spilling its hot seed.

When it was all over, it moved to look down at him, its face almost touching his, and for a maddened moment Legolas thought it was going to kiss him. But it only laughed into his face, making him gag with its fetid breath. And then it said two words. A rough translation that made his blood run cold. Had he thought these were unintelligent beings? He was wrong.

“ _Shakhuruk_ … Captain.” Its eyes gleamed in triumph over him, and Legolas couldn’t look away, realising what he had been calling out to his attacker.

“No,” he breathed, not wanting to believe it. The uruk-hai looked down on him for one more moment, and in its eyes he finally saw intelligence. He would never underestimate these again.

“Yes.” It replied, and then pulled out of him in a sudden movement that made Legolas cry out. It didn’t look at him again.

Images and sounds replayed in his mind over and over. The feeling of being taken by ‘it’ disgusted him, and he lay there gasping with his eyes closed, fighting to keep his sanity, knowing there was no escape there. There _was_ help for his mind though. Water began to fall on his face, and he looked up to find one of them emptying the flask he had made onto his lips. He lapped at the water instinctively, his body remembering the run and the burning air he had breathed.

When it was all gone he was pulled roughly to his feet, and Legolas almost cried in relief. At last! To have the weight change position. He cradled himself with his hands for a moment or two before they were grabbed and bound together behind him. Then he was pushed forward. He nearly stumbled. And then he knew what had to happen now. This was far from over. He was naked again, and his feet were bare. The uruk-hai’s semen began to trickle down the inside of his legs, and he realised he had never in his life wanted so much to be clean. But he was a long way from that. He was shoved roughly forward into the darkness, with the uruk-hai behind him. It was a long walk back to Sauron, and his fury.

 

**Author’s Note:** My sincere thanks go to ______ for helping me out with the word. I needed something for ‘captain,’ and _____ suggested this, an amalgamation of two words that means literally ‘lord-uruk.’


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Twelve

It had been a few miles before he began to fall. Each time he was hoisted to his feet and prodded forward again. But eventually the time came that he couldn’t be forced to walk any further. His feet were cut and bleeding, his legs refusing to support him any longer. At that point the uruk-hai had simply lifted him and carried him the rest of the way, while he slipped in and out of consciousness.

He expected to be dragged in front of Sauron immediately, but that wasn’t the case. He wasn’t taken to Maglor either though. The uruk-hai deposited him in a small bathroom, and he awoke from reverie again to find orcs washing him. They removed the small sharp stones from the soft skin of his feet, cleaned the ash and dust from his hair so that it once more hung straight, shining and perfect. They washed the blood away from his hands and shins – the wounds were already healing. It felt so good to be clean. But everything ends, and too soon he found himself being led silently to a large room.

_He_ waited. The orcs left Legolas in the centre of the room, a short distance away from where the dark lord stood watching him. The strangest feeling came over him as he looked on Sauron, and he struggled with it for a few moments before he realised that after the last few hours, he was glad to see him again. Legolas lowered his eyes and folded his arms across his body, holding his elbows with his hands. He waited.

Without looking up he knew that Sauron was walking towards him, and he became frightened, his feet shifting minutely, twitching, as if he would run.

“Do not move.” Legolas still didn’t look up, but he concentrated on obeying the order, fighting with his own instincts to get away, to move back, so that when Sauron finally stood before him he was shaking with the effort of staying still.

“You should tremble,” Sauron observed wryly. Legolas still didn’t look up, but he felt Sauron’s gaze moving over him, lingering lovingly like a connoisseur on the cuts and bruises that covered his skin. The dark lord laughed softly, and his hand came into Legolas’ view. He watched as Sauron brushed his thumb over a nipple. It was still bruised and darkened from the rough treatment of the uruk-hai earlier, and the soft touch on the sensitive area made Legolas hiss in pain. Now Sauron carried on speaking, his hands examining the swell of his belly.

“Yes, you should be afraid. He will not protect you for much longer – and already you have so much to be sorry for.” He looked up then, into Sauron’s eyes. He wished he didn’t know what the dark lord meant, but he did. His first panicked flee after he awoke so long ago, his latest attempt at an escape. It was all there in his mind, and he realised for the first time that all of Sauron’s threats were much more than that – they were promises. Sauron smiled, seeming to see Legolas’ thoughts.

“I see you remember,” he said dryly. Then his voice became cold. “Good. When the time comes, you will have no trouble naming your crimes to me.” For a moment the words were left there, between them, and Legolas saw a time when he would be begging for forgiveness, knowing exactly what he was apologising for, and much more than that, believing in it. He was almost sorry already.

The mood changed then, and Sauron’s hands moved lower, taking hold of his soft member, bringing that strange magic to bear on his desires at the same time, not that he really needed to. It was impossible not to want him, not to react to his touch. He was frightening in his perfection, and before long Legolas was sighing breathlessly, helpless to refuse the dark lord anything, looking into Sauron’s eyes, still trapped by his will. It seemed to him that only the two of them existed, and he wanted to beg, to plead. What for he didn’t know. Perhaps only that he didn’t stop. He rested his hands on the dark lord’s shoulders and closed his eyes.

“I could hurt you.” The hand that was slowly stroking him stopped and the pressure of his fingers increased ever so slightly. Legolas gasped helplessly. “You know that, don’t you?” He couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even move away. Sauron just waited, everything completely still, until Legolas was sure he would scream, that he must do something to make time move forward again. Even if only for the dark lord to carry out his threat. Sauron could hurt him – so easily, and there was nothing to say that he wouldn’t. But he didn’t move, and Legolas was held in a kind of limbo, still feeling the desire along with the fear, until they combined in him to form something different, something new. Sauron spoke to him then.

“And would it be any less than what you deserve?” Legolas cried out when Sauron moved his hand again, not knowing what to expect, but he only stroked Legolas again, moving over his hardness with experienced fingers, knowing exactly the way to squeeze and pull at him. The pleasure was intense, with an edge that was the threat of violence and pain. Legolas’ existence narrowed, until there was only Sauron’s hand, and what was happening to him. Just before the instant when it would all be over, everything stopped. Even the magic changed, now becoming a restraint to him, so that he whimpered at the cruelty of being denied in such a way.

“Not yet,” Sauron warned. “Such perfect fear will come for you when _I_ decide to allow it, and not before.” He was pulled closer, into Sauron’s embrace as he began to cry, resting his head against the dark lord’s shoulder, ready to surrender to anything now. Sauron’s hands stroked gently down his back, almost seeming to soothe him.

“Legolas, you should have confessed to me, I know you wanted to, and I would have been merciful then. I am not without sympathy.” There was a kind of reproach in his tone, and Legolas only wept as his own thoughts and feelings were changed and re-ordered, until he didn’t know what the truth was anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered miserably. Sauron continued.

“But instead you endangered yourself, and now I must do something to ensure that such ideas do not take root in your mind.” He sighed. “How should I save you from yourself?” he asked without seeming to want an answer. “What can I take from you to teach you the error of your ways?” He sounded as though he was dealing with an errant child, and all Legolas could do was accept it. He couldn’t even remember why he had run away, not now. He clung to the dark lord, taking comfort from being in his arms.

“Your sight, perhaps? That is disabling, and will keep you here.” Suddenly Legolas had a terrible premonition. An existence without light or shape, without colour or warning. Only _his_ touch, leading him on. _His_ voice, giving sustenance to a hungry mind. Wandering blindly in a world of monsters, with only _his_ directions to follow and to trust. Only _his_ truth to believe in. So helpless…

“I have but to speak a word,” Sauron reminded him, pulling him back to awareness. Legolas’ fear was an instrument that the dark lord played easily, and he trembled in response, still imagining what it would be like to be so dependent on Sauron.

“No, please,” he implored Sauron without meaning to, and his own voice already sounded childlike and lost to his ears, as if it had already begun.

“No?” Sauron laughed softly. “Then what about your hair? It would be a symbolic gesture on your part.”

His hair? Legolas looked up in confusion and the dark lord laughed at him again. “Forgive me, I am playing with you.” His voice was still full of sardonic amusement. But then the sarcasm didn’t seem to please him enough, and his smile vanished like green grass under the snow. Legolas shivered.

“I couldn’t resist.” Now he became cold and deliberate, looking deeply into Legolas’ eyes to make sure he understood.

“Because I already know what you will miss the most, what you have forgotten to appreciate.” What did he have that Sauron could still take from him? For the first time he wondered what Sauron might do when the child was finally born. Would the dark lord kill him? Legolas swallowed, wondering how it would happen.

“So easily forgotten,” Sauron said in disapproval. “Although he didn’t forget you, and he fears for you, even as he pays for what you have done.” Sudden shock. There was only one word in Legolas’ mind now. Only one name.

“Maglor…” he breathed, in sudden understanding. But he didn’t understand it all, not yet.

“Yes. I’m afraid you will not see him for some time. He has his own lessons to learn.”

“Where is he?” Legolas asked timidly, already knowing he wouldn’t receive an answer.

“That is none of your concern now. He is already sorry, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“You are sorry for what he endures, and yet it is entirely your fault that he is gone. If you couldn’t confess to me, then you should at least have confided in him – for his sake. He pays the price for not gaining your trust.” Now everything clicked into place, and Legolas nearly fell as he remembered…

_“I can’t trust you, can I?” Maglor. Considering, thinking, and then the answer._

_“No, pen neth, you can’t”_

Then another memory…

_“Won’t you tell me what he has done? I could help you…” Concern and worry from Maglor, and Legolas had become angry._

_“No, you can’t. Just leave me alone.” And Legolas had hurt him, it was plain from the look on his face. But at least it meant he could be alone, with his thoughts and plans. He barely listened to Maglor’s quiet answer._

_“You’re right, of course. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry.”_

He realised for the first time what it meant that Maglor had told him not to trust. That he had done it knowing he would pay a terrible price with Sauron. He had gone against the dark lord’s wishes, for him. Then he remembered his own thoughts earlier, before his escape, and the guilt came crashing down on him.

_

…he couldn’t allow himself to turn into that. To become as dependent on Sauron as Maglor was…to give up completely… like him. Legolas pitied him, but there was nothing he could do… Maglor had simply been trapped here too long… he couldn’t sacrifice himself to make Maglor feel better about his fate… 

_

What had he done? How could he have been so blind, so selfish, and so cold? He began to despise himself.

“Valar,” Legolas whispered, wishing for forgiveness from someone who wasn’t there. It was almost as if he and Maglor had traded places for a moment.

“Oh?” Sauron laughed derisively. “But they no longer think of him. He is completely alone, forgotten by all, seemingly even by you.” Sauron looked down on him with contempt, and Legolas knew he deserved it. “ _You_.” He sneered. “An Elf. The very image of what ‘good’ is. Yet you are far more cruel than I have ever been. As time passes, Maglor will cling to one surety. That although he doesn’t know how long it will last, and although I am cold, and distant… _I_ will not forget him.”

Legolas felt the accusation as a dagger in the heart, and he welcomed the pain. But he couldn’t let it go there. He had to try. For Maglor.

“Please,” he began nervously.

“What are you asking for?” Sauron demanded impatiently. Legolas nearly stuttered. But then all his thoughts came out as a rush of words in his desperation to stop whatever was happening.

“It’s my fault. I’m sorry. He doesn’t deserve it. I should have trusted him, I should have told him. Please, punish me, and not him.” Sauron only smiled in satisfaction.

“But as I have already told you, Legolas. By taking him away, I _am_ punishing you.” Sauron let him go then, almost pushed him. Legolas didn’t realise how much strength he was lending from his touch until it was taken away, and he fell to the floor. Sauron looked down on him scornfully.

“I suggest you get some rest, I’m sure you are tired, and soon you will need your strength.” He was about to walk away, but then stopped. “Forget about Maglor,” he advised, without looking down again. “I’m certain that for you, it will not be so difficult.” Then he was gone, leaving the orcs to take Legolas back to an empty, cheerless room, with his last impression of Sauron being the black robes that brushed against his face as he walked away.

* * *

The next week or two passed slowly, and still Maglor did not return. Legolas tried to deal with his guilt, but it was impossible when he didn’t know what was happening to the other elf.

His pregnancy advanced quickly too in that time. More and more milk was leaking from him. He didn’t develop breasts, as he had at first feared, but the flesh around his nipples became softer, as if he was losing the tone of his muscle. He found the extra weight a burden, and it was difficult to keep still, to stay in one position. It was hot too, and even in his nakedness – Sauron didn’t allow him to wear clothes – he began to wish for an open window so that he could feel the breeze against his face.

The fear grew too, and he found himself unable to think directly of the birth. He thought around the edges of it, and he still didn’t know exactly what it would mean for him. Always alone, he confided his fears to his children. He talked and sang to them as if they were already there, hoping that somehow everything would be all right, knowing it couldn’t be – not here.

It was almost a relief when Sauron appeared. He had been left completely alone all this time. Only the orcs visited him, to leave food and water, and they locked the door behind them. Now it seemed something would happen. Sauron gestured at the uruk-hai that had entered with him, and they took his arms to lead him from the room. He didn’t fight them – actually he was glad of their help, and he leaned on them without shame. It was difficult to move so easily now, and especially to keep up with Sauron.

However, when they reached their destination he was screaming to be let go. But it was much too late by then. It had been too late for a long time.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

**EXTRA WARNING:**

Yes, I mean you too.

Stop right there.

This chapter contains the birth scene, and I would be willing to bet that no other M-Preg story features a birth scene quite like this (if you know of one, let me have the link). Sauron knew long ago what it would entail, what with Legolas being male, and he has been looking forward to it for some time (sharpening the knives and such). That should give you a clue. So, with that in mind, I am warning you for horror (of the ‘oh-my-God, I feel sick now’ variety), torture and gore.

If you already feel slightly sickened at the thought, then please skip to the end, where there are few nice paragraphs about the babies.

It’s also one of the longer chapters, I think, at over six thousand words.

Chapter Thirteen

Legolas screamed. Sauron had kept a close watch on his mind, an invisible presence Legolas couldn’t feel. As soon as the elf had seen the bed and the table he had known. It didn’t matter, but Sauron could do without the elf’s struggling now. It was far too late for that anyway. Sauron narrowed his eyes, and reined Legolas’ thoughts in tightly. Now he quietened, only the sobbing of a child continued somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind. It was good enough.

Sauron walked to stand near the bed, some distance away from Legolas. He ignored the uruk-hai; they would be useful again later. Silently, he commanded Legolas to look at him, and when he obeyed, Sauron took hold of his familiar desires. The elf was so easy to control and manipulate; if Sauron had been anyone else he would have felt pity, as it was he only smiled maliciously, and beckoned. Legolas actually walked forward of his own volition. The uruk-hai released him and he walked towards Sauron as if he wasn’t aware of the danger. But it wasn’t the truth.

In a seeming travesty of trust, Legolas held out his hands to Sauron, and the dark lord smiled again to see it. But then he noticed the eyes – awareness there, and denial, as if the elf couldn’t believe what he was doing. Legolas was fighting. Really, he was much stronger that Sauron had imagined. A surprise. But it wouldn’t help him. He guided Legolas to the bed, the elf was seemingly docile and obedient, but then a single sound escaped his lips. It was nearly a sob.

The hands he was holding trembled, and Sauron sighed, already beginning to increase the pressure on Legolas’ mind. But then something made him start. There was another presence. Outside.

“ _You have no place here_!” It was a roar. Loud enough to make the land itself tremble. Too loud really to be uttered by the form of the sorcerer he favoured at the moment, but his anger was so great that he cared little. How dare they _watch_ him? How dare they interfere like this?

The answer almost seemed to hit him in its intensity. Terrible shocked outrage, and a thousand words and thoughts crowded him at once, so that the dark lord whirled around in fury, forced to forget Legolas and pay attention. “ _No_! This is an offence! _It is a crime you commit_ … **You are forbidden**! We protect him…” They sought to distract him, and it worked.

* * *

Legolas stood still, and he felt free will return to him as Sauron concentrated his mental energies elsewhere. He backed away, not really knowing where to go, and then he felt it. Slowly he turned around. Golden light bathed his features, and he stared into forever as if he were once more enchanted. Voices within the light welcomed him, their hands almost reached him. All he had to do was take a few short steps towards them, and he would be able to touch. He wanted to, more than anything. Upon the point of joining them, he looked back, and saw his own body where he had left it. The room was a picture, a tableau of a fight for a soul. His. Sauron had turned quickly, and his robes twirled around him endlessly, his face a perfect depiction of hatred and fury as he glared at the light. Nothing moved, and Legolas stared for a moment or two before he realised that the strange power that had rescued him was weakening.

The figures in the room remained frozen, but he heard a distant rumbling. It sounded like the earth was being torn apart. The battle of wills seemed to shake the very foundations of the room, and then Sauron looked at him. Only his eyes moved, and Legolas shivered. Soon it would be too late! He turned back towards the light hastily, ready to flee there to safety. But something was missing. He looked down at himself. Only him. In an instant he knew that he would be leaving them behind. They were never meant to be.

Legolas hesitated for a single second longer in sudden doubt, and it was all over. He knew he had made a kind of choice, for now at least, and he couldn’t regret it. He wasn’t turned away – one day he would belong to the light – he knew that, and it gave him peace for a moment or two. As the golden light began to fade, eternity beyond his reach for now, he turned back to the room. It seemed Sauron had grown in size somehow, so that he dwarfed everything else. The dark lord still looked at Legolas, but he was frozen in place and unable to claim him.

Legolas stood as motionless as the figures before him, terrified, and then a sound in the background began to separate from the others and grow louder. A hissing sound. He looked around him for the source of it but he saw nothing. It seemed to resonate from the very stones of the floor and the walls. When he looked back at Sauron, he was moving. Slowly, but it was happening. Legolas could only watch as his robes fluttered around him wildly. It was as though the dark lord stood in the centre of a whirlwind, and soon Legolas couldn’t see him at all. His robes were a blur of movement in front of Legolas’ eyes, and then they fell away. In Sauron’s place was a giant snake. It lay coiled in upon itself, the light shining on black scales and massive obsidian eyes. By its very size it was frightening. It hissed at him, yellow poison dripping from its white fangs, and then it lunged. Legolas screamed and threw up his arms in a desperate attempt to protect himself from the strike as the darkness swallowed him.

* * *

The dark lord carried Legolas the rest of the way to the bed. After the disturbance, the elf had fainted – fallen into his arms so gracefully it had almost hurt to watch, and Sauron had forgotten his anger instantly. While he was otherwise engaged, he had been too busy to pay attention to Legolas’ mind, and now he wondered what the elf had seen, how the battle had translated into images… Actually, he was glad it had happened before hand. No one would be rescuing him now. No. Now there would be no interruptions. It was wonderfully final. He laid Legolas down, elevating his head and shoulders slightly with pillows, and ran his hands over the smooth skin of his belly, feeling for them, noting their position.

There was a stirring in Legolas’ mind as he came round. Sauron had re-established his hold over the elf, and now he heard denial again. It was weak and without hope but it was still there. He saw with a certain amount of displeasure the way Legolas was shaking. That would never do, not now, not for this. Legolas needed to be still if he was to succeed. He gave Legolas a mental suggestion – to relax – and was satisfied when the trembling subsided.

“No,” the elf moaned. Sauron ignored the plea, and continued with his preparation, retrieving a clean cloth from the pot of boiling water positioned over the fire so that he could clean the area. Legolas repeated the one word over and over, at first quietly, but it grew in volume and frequency until Sauron looked up. He stroked the elf’s mind, calming and eventually pushing back the hysteria, denying him even the temporary escape of madness.

“Please. Don’t,” Legolas intoned gravely. Something about the way he sounded made Sauron want to break him – completely. He would be breathtaking! Sauron knew all about malice; it was the quality of sympathy without conscience, and it was what he felt when he looked at Legolas. Only with sympathy could Sauron truly enjoy the suffering of others. Yes, understanding was important, and useful. He knew exactly what to do.

“Don’t?” he asked, smirking slightly. “But you are ready now.” He watched Legolas’ reaction avidly, releasing his mind a little so that it was easier for him to speak.

“What do you mean?” His fear made him deny the knowledge of what was to come, Sauron realised. But he wouldn’t allow escape that way either.

“Oh, come now, Legolas,” he snapped coldly. “How did you expect for this to happen?” He laughed then at the look on the elf’s face, suddenly knowing what his thoughts were because of the link between them. “You really are too amusing.” Sauron made sure that the elf would be silent again, and then he began his work.

First he removed his robes, so that he was naked from the waist up, as he needed to be free and unfettered to do this. He was conscious of Legolas watching him – it was all the elf could do – and it made him aware of himself in a most delicious way. Sauron smiled, and revelled in the attention.

Without another word, Sauron picked out the first instrument from the steel table beside the bed. A tiny knife that gleamed silver in the light. He just needed to make a mark on the skin, a guiding line. Sauron drew the blade over Legolas’ belly in one smooth sure stroke, admiring the way the sharp edge cut easily through the skin with just the minimal amount of pressure. It didn’t snag or tear, it was clean and precise, and exactly what he wanted.

The knife went back to the table, and Sauron put his hands over Legolas, squeezing the skin together as if he would take back that first light cut. It made the blood seep from under his skin in a thin red line. He could feel the terror of the elf through the mental link, and it pleased him. He looked at the blood, and a wild, untamed part of him came suddenly to the surface. The idea of mutilation was appealing. Indeed, the skin was so stretched it could happen with the slightest encouragement. He saw it happening in his mind, and the wolf clamoured to be set free. Sauron kept it back, and it growled in its lust and hunger.

Another part of him wanted simply to lick at the line of blood, to follow the trail of it across Legolas’ belly. Sauron licked his lips – he could almost taste it already. Honeyed copper. He favoured the vampire; it was less emotional and visceral than the animal, more spiritual. It suited his present mood. Deliberate, controlled and personal. There was a moment every time when his victims gave in, even those who would die in his cold embrace, a moment where they gave their lives to him. He smiled again, to himself. No one ever really survived.

“No!” Again Legolas managed to speak, despite the hold over his mind. Truly he was strong in his fear. Sauron dragged his attention away from the line he had made and looked up. The idea he had earlier called to him once more. Yes, to see him ask, to see him accept this. That was irresistible – and a challenge he couldn’t refuse.

“Shh,” Sauron whispered. “I have only broken through the skin, it is not begun yet.” He let his gaze wander back to the line of blood for a moment, unable to avoid moistening his lips again when he saw the perfect symmetry of the cut. It was as well and lovingly made as the skin he had ruined to execute it. “Not quite enough,” he whispered raggedly, allowing himself to feel the lust for one more lingering moment before looking back to Legolas. He raised his voice a little, and forced the elf to listen to him.

* * *

The surface of Legolas’ mind was unnaturally calm, but he breathed quickly and shallowly – a sure sign of hidden panic. His body felt heavy, and he couldn’t move. It was no longer under his command. He knew that was Sauron’s doing, and he watched the dark lord with a cold detachment, but underneath that veneer was a storm.

So many thoughts, so many feelings, and under here Legolas was screaming. The sickening waves of hysteria rolled restlessly back and forth within him, searching for a way out but there was none. He could feel the presence of the dark lord in his mind, like a black oppressive hand, smothering his panic, making him still and quiet when he needed so desperately to protest. But Sauron wasn’t completely unwelcome. Legolas refused to think directly about what this was, what he had known when he first set eyes on the room. He wouldn’t think of it! Sauron’s intentions offended his very soul.

But then there had been the cut, and it forced him to face the truth. It only hurt a little, but it was the potential. There would be more, much more. Sauron wouldn’t stop. And it was also the way the dark lord had looked at him afterwards. Hungry and possessive. His eyes had changed again, burning like fire, and Legolas had tried to scream. He had tried to move.

Surely he was to die here, and yet he couldn’t speak out. He could only watch helplessly as his life was taken. And at a time like this he realised the shallow truth about life and death. He didn’t mind the dying so much, but he wanted to be spared the pain. The wave of hysteria threatened to break and consume him, but then Sauron began to speak. He was compelled to listen, but he had no desire to be ignorant. The dark lord’s voice would alleviate the cold, because it was a merciful acknowledgement of his state. He was awake, and sentient. When Sauron addressed him, it meant that he knew, and so Legolas wanted to listen. And he was grateful.

“Let me explain this to you, and then you will appreciate what I’m going to do.” Now Sauron’s voice had changed. The usual dark humour was absent, nor was there any trace of impatience. He actually sounded concerned, and Legolas needed to believe in it so much that he made it real. Sauron touched his belly again, this time gently, to illustrate his words. The dark lord’s hands were warm against his skin and the touch was strangely comforting. He wouldn’t hurt them – somehow Legolas knew it – he had known that since the beginning.

“The children are here, and here. They are growing inside you, but your body was never meant to carry them, so the only way for them to be born is for me to open you up and take them away.” The hysteria returned, but Sauron’s presence easily controlled it. How did he make it sound so reasonable? Legolas tried to plead with his eyes, every part of him wanting to cry out, to deny Sauron’s words. He didn’t have to do this. The dark lord carried on speaking softly, and the obvious sympathy in his words only brought the two of them closer together. Legolas encouraged the dark lord in the only way he could. He listened.

“I have already left you for far longer than a female would carry children. Now it really is time. You must know this, and feel it.” Sauron looked down on him so earnestly that Legolas found himself wanting to agree, and he was glad that for the moment he couldn’t.

“It’s getting difficult to move, isn’t it?” Sauron asked. “Your back aches terribly, you feel so full and drained at the same time.” He was describing what the last few weeks had been like perfectly, almost as if he knew. And Legolas, who only wanted understanding, forgot that Sauron was his enemy. Sauron took his hands where they lay useless and still on the bed. Legolas tried so hard to return that touch! He wanted to respond, but his fingers wouldn’t listen to him.

“It’s not comfortable even to rest, is it? I know…” He looked so intensely honest. And everything he said was the truth. He leaned over Legolas only to kiss his cheek. He felt a single tear fall as the dark lord continued kissing him. His forehead, his nose, his chin. The dark lord’s lips felt like the touch of sunlight on his face. Sauron made his offer in a whisper, as though it was a secret between them. “I can make it stop, Legolas.” And at the same time as he was feeling so very close to giving in, his heart jumped in horror.

“I can end all that for you,” Sauron promised, moving back to look down at him again. He spoke as if it was a mercy and a kindness he was offering, and Legolas wondered if it was. All the pain and suffering of the last few months came back to him. He _was_ tired. But he was also immortal, and it was his right and his privilege to see the centuries pass. Nothing stayed the same forever. He was so young, he hadn’t even tasted the promise, and he wanted to live.

“All you have to do is ask me.” Legolas barely had time to register what Sauron was asking him for before the presence in his mind retreated to give him freedom. He had thought that he would scream, but instead he took a sudden deep, shuddering breath. At last he was able to grip the dark lord’s hands, and he held on to those hands desperately, as if the dark lord might be thinking of leaving him. Sauron only answered with another gentle kiss, and Legolas was able to return that too.

“Speak,” Sauron reminded him gently then, when it was over. This was a chance. Legolas opened his eyes and looked up at Sauron with all his heart and soul. He drew in a breath without the slightest idea of what he was going to say, only knowing he had to make Sauron see him, to see what he was doing, to make him stop.

“ _I am Legolas_ ,” he said meaningfully, wanting Sauron to understand that he was still there, that he could still feel, however much control the dark lord had over his mind and body.

“Yes,” Sauron said, with the ghost of a smile. Legolas shook his head impatiently and pulled at one of Sauron’s hands so that he could rest it against his cheek. He looked up into the dark lord’s eyes again as he began to cry.

“I’m alive,” he said, his voice tremulous and filled with emotion. His meaning couldn’t be mistaken now. “Please…”

* * *

All of his hope was there, in his eyes, along with his fear. The hope that Sauron had encouraged in him along with another, more important misconception. And he was right – Legolas was stunning like this. He leaned down and kissed the elf deeply this time, as if he would drink of his pain, and in a way he did. The taste of his saliva was mixed with his tears. Bitter fear and sweet anguish combining to make Sauron desire him even more. But it wasn’t time for that. He kissed Legolas more gently now, whispering against his lips.

“I know,” he said reassuringly. “Shh…” It sounded like a declaration of love. He repeated the words over and over again while Legolas continued to weep, clutching Sauron close as he would a saviour. The elf thought it was over, but it wasn’t. Sauron wouldn’t stop this – he couldn’t. Everything Legolas did only ensured his fate; made Sauron more determined to see it through. It was all so poignantly inevitable. Sauron couldn’t contain a smile as he corrected him. “Ask me,” he said finally, pulling back, and Legolas looked up at him now in understanding, knowing there was no escape.

“No,” he replied faintly. Sauron hadn’t expected anything else. And he waited a moment, giving the elf time to realise that he had refused before he carried on speaking.

“And still you say no?” he asked, as if in surprise. “Very well, then let me explain what will happen should you refuse my help.” He looked down at Legolas, making sure that his words were completely understood.

“They will continue to grow inside you while they still can, like parasites, since that is what children really are. The aches and pains you suffer from at the moment are nothing to what you will feel when they are simply too big for you. Too heavy. Perhaps they will eventually break your back.” Now he smiled, gesturing to remind Legolas of his current state.

“Yes, you will be helpless, paralysed – your body will be too busy keeping up with their demands to heal you – such a sad, pathetic thing you will be! Of course, sooner or later your body won’t be able to keep up with them anyway.” He paused for a moment before delivering the final words.

“They will perish, slowly starved to death, and you will be left broken and dying, with your dead children still inside you.” Sauron shook his head. “Is that really what you want?”

* * *

“No,” Legolas admitted. How could he say anything else? And still he dared to believe in what he heard. It wasn’t in Sauron’s words, but in the way he said them. He would live through this. And in the midst of feeling glad that Sauron intended to save him, he felt sickened. He would live through this. He looked up at the dark lord, seeing for the first time exactly what he intended to do, and knew that he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

“Or do you want my help after all?” The future Sauron had described would surely come to pass if he was left alone. He knew it was the truth. But how could he ask?

“I…” Legolas began, not ready to say it, and yet not daring to stay silent for fear that Sauron would take that as a refusal.

“All you need to do is say it… there’s nothing wrong with asking for help, Legolas. Surely you were taught that?” Now the dry humour was back, and Legolas flinched. But his eyes filled with tears and he knew he had to ask. It was all he could do.

“Help me…” he begged, full of shame for what he was doing.

“Tell me what you want me to do for you.” It wasn’t enough! Legolas looked up in disbelief, and saw the hunger in Sauron’s eyes. He wanted to hear it. In some strange way the dark lord wanted to hear him say it. Why?

“I want you to… Please, take them away from me.” And he had done it. Now he had nothing to reproach the dark lord with. Everything that happened from this moment on would happen because he had asked for it, because he had begged for it. A small voice insisted that he had been coerced, but it was lost in all the other voices that demanded to be heard. What was sense in a mind full of fear, doubt, and denial?

“That’s better. And it wasn’t so hard to ask nicely, was it?” Sauron asked.

“No,” he replied. Sauron smiled down at him then.

“You may address me as Maglor does; it will make you feel better.” He gave in to Sauron’s wishes now with a kind of weary resignation. There was nothing else worse that Sauron could ask him for. This new request was easy.

“Yes, _Hîr nín_ ,” he said dully. But then he wanted to cry because Sauron was right. It did feel better to address him so. And what did that mean? Was he as lost and hopeless as Maglor now?

“Good.” Sauron looked at the table, and then looked back at Legolas, considering something.

“I could let you sleep for this…” he began.

“Please!” Legolas cried out immediately, wanting to be given this mercy so much that he could taste it. He would do anything Sauron wanted for the kindness. Surely he wouldn’t go through with it. But Sauron continued speaking, not even pausing to acknowledge him.

“… but then you might never wake again. No, it is much safer this way.” Legolas felt the dark lord seize control of his mind again, and he wanted to struggle. Maybe he did, instinctively, but it didn’t make any difference. Soon he was helpless once more.

“You will want to scream,” Sauron said, and he looked at Legolas hungrily. “But you know I can’t allow that either.” Then his ability to speak was taken away. He wouldn’t be able to cry out while this happened, he realised. He was a prisoner inside his own body. This time Sauron went further, and soon Legolas felt even his breathing being controlled. It slowed until it was steady and sure, and Legolas’ lungs burned before he forced himself to calm down, accepting the restriction.

Sauron picked up another small knife from the shining table. From the way he was positioned, propped up with pillows, Legolas could see himself perfectly. As the edge of the blade touched him, he did the only thing he could. Made the only choice he had left. He closed his eyes.

Every sensation was his, every cut, every wound. He felt them all in complete awareness. He did want to scream, and cry, but Sauron maintained an iron grip on his body and his mind. The pain was an animal that prowled around in his mind, banging on the walls, demanding to be set free, but it was denied. Still, when he felt something moving deep inside him, pulling at him, he couldn’t be prevented from taking a deep breath. It was such an intense sensation. Immediately there were hands on his midriff, under his chest, holding him so that he was forced to breathe shallowly again. He opened his eyes.

In front of him, he saw it, and he forgot his pain instantly. There were others around him, but he only had eyes for the tiny being that Sauron was holding. He couldn’t see much. The baby was covered in blood, and immediately Legolas felt a stab of panic. Then the little being coughed, and began to _breathe_. Sauron ignored Legolas, a look of intense concentration on his face, and passed the baby to one of the uruk-hai that stood waiting. Another knife, this time to cut the cord that linked them together. Legolas looked up and found the uruk-hai staring at him with yellow eyes. He looked around and found the gaze of the one who controlled his breathing on him too. Legolas closed his eyes again – he didn’t like the way they looked at him, and he couldn’t explain why. This time he didn’t look when he felt that strange pulling.

After the shock of what he had seen, the pain began to return, and there came a time when everything seemed to stop. Still he kept his eyes closed, even when the hands of the uruk-hai left him. But something moved then, still within him, and he knew it wasn’t over.

He opened his eyes this time to find Sauron staring at him. For a second he looked into those dark eyes, and then he felt something so painfully intimate that he wanted to scream. He managed to open his mouth, but no sound came from him. Sauron continued to caress him gently, inside, and he heard the dark lord’s voice in his mind. Legolas knew. He wanted to say that he understood. There was no part of him that Sauron couldn’t touch, that he didn’t own. He was kept alive only because it pleased Sauron to see his reactions, and his pain. He looked up helplessly, unable to move away, unable to stop it. The agony was so intense it made him sweat; a terrible griping sensation so deep inside. He felt the iron control move aside a little and he gasped.

“Yes!” he cried out his answer breathlessly, still captured by Sauron’s intense gaze. The dark lord smiled, and then it was at last over. Sauron’s dangerous attention passed over him, and he bent to his task once more. His relief was so great that the pain of his wound was barely noticeable. Legolas hardly noticed the passing of time now. He felt the loss, so empty inside, and so lonely without. Nothing to hold. But he knew he would never forget the way the dark lord possessed him. Sauron had stolen something else this time – already the dark lord had taken the sanctuary of his mind – now the sanctity of his body was over.

It must have taken longer to finish than it had to start. So much time had passed since they had been taken away from him. In fact it took so long that the restless pain returned, but his mind was hazier now, as though he was going to sleep regardless of what Sauron had decided for him. He regretted not looking for the other now, he should have opened his eyes. Now he wished he had looked, now that they were missing. He needed to know they were both all right. He wanted to know that Sauron had not killed the other child, but he feared he must have done. What use did Sauron have for such a child?

Eventually, Legolas felt Sauron leave his mind. He was alone and free once more, and the feeling as well as the relief elicited a long, drawn-out moan from him. The moan changed, became the scream that he had wanted to voice for so long. He felt his own will spreading through him, returning to his muscles and limbs, and he knew he was going to sit up. But then hands were holding him down. Sauron. He held Legolas still, physically this time, and spoke to him.

* * *

“Shh… it is done now. It’s over,” he said quietly, calming Legolas’ mind. The scream carried on for a while, and then it suddenly stopped. Legolas looked at the dark lord as if unsure what to do, now that he had at last expressed his horror and pain.

“What do you say?” Sauron asked.

“Say…?” Legolas looked at him blankly. Sauron considered. Yes, he was right, Legolas would become mindless, given time.

“At least Maglor had manners when he came to me,” he said with a cold, hard glassy smile. Legolas swallowed, and nodded.

“Thank you, _Hîr nín_.”

“Yes,” Sauron nodded. “Soon you will feel better… soon.” He leaned in close. It wasn’t really necessary, but he wanted to use the word. By now, he was sure that it had come to mean something.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, and the elf shivered. He waited, enjoying the feel of Legolas’ body so close to him, trembling but belonging to him completely. The scent of him was pleasant. You could never really take the essence of an elf, not completely. Chain them in darkness and deny them the sun. Steal them away, and take them far from home. Obliterate the sky itself and keep them from the moon and starlight. It didn’t matter. You couldn’t destroy what they were. They brought the memory of those things with them. Having them was like having cut flowers. A subtle reminder.

Legolas smelled of cool rain and golden summer. Sauron inhaled deeply, as if he were breathing fresh air, and for a moment he was lost. He remembered his long life, remembered a time when the world was new and wondrous. He had been learning, and his dissatisfaction with the way of things had only been a quiet voice. This was long before he had encountered Melkor. Not a time of innocence, he doubted such a thing existed for his kind, but naïveté certainly. Perhaps, conversely, in his defeat Legolas reminded him of happiness. The irony was not lost on Sauron.

And yet despite the memories that Legolas evoked, Sauron still couldn’t make it easy for him, wouldn’t make it so even if he had a choice. The elf was far too rewarding.

“Is there something you want to ask me?” Sauron enquired, knowing what Legolas’ thoughts were concerned with above all else, and wanting to hear him ask. He moved away and Legolas looked into his eyes, in this moment completely submissive to his every desire, and obedient.

“Where…?” he began, uncertain and obviously fearful for what he might hear. Sauron only smirked and waited a moment longer, enjoying the elf’s anxiety. Then he stepped back, and the uruk-hai placed the children in Legolas’ arms. Carefully, so that they wouldn’t hurt him. Despite the incredible recuperative powers of his own body; the powers that were already at work healing him, he still required rest and as little disturbance as possible.

* * *

Legolas looked at them, and everything was forgotten, even Sauron. His fear and his pain vanished like shadow in the midday sun. Even the feeling of loss left him as he held them in his arms, because they were there. Legolas was in love. Both of them were quiet, and had their eyes closed as if they didn’t want to look at the world yet. Even the sound of their breathing seemed miraculous. Tiny little breaths for such young beings. Through the mist of his happy tears he studied the first. This was Sauron’s child. He had blond hair, and the softest pink skin that Legolas had ever seen. His long eyelashes rested on his cheeks, so perfectly formed that he wanted to shout in happiness.

Now he looked at the other. Both boys, but the uruk child was different. He snuggled into the crook of Legolas’ arm not quite like a baby. His little hands were already at rest on Legolas’ chest, so that he looked like a tiny version of a sleeping child. His skin was light grey in colour, like the uruk-hai, but there were no blemishes or marks on it. He already had much of his hair, and it hung in perfectly tight ringlets around his face, a darker grey than that of his skin, charcoal. As soon as Legolas had taken all this in, he opened his eyes, and then it was difficult for Legolas to breathe. He had the most beautiful piercing green eyes – like Merenon. A gift carried down from his father, Legolas realised. His child looked around him curiously, and Legolas smiled to see it.

“You are beautiful,” Legolas said to him, and immediately those green eyes were on him. Legolas felt his heart contract in gladness and joy. He recognised his voice! “Yes, you know who I am, don’t you?” he said, as if the child could understand him. His son just looked back at him, captivated by the sound of his voice. Little hands stretched out for his face, to touch him, and Legolas leaned closer so that he could reach, laughing as the baby’s fingers moved over his lips curiously. He kissed the tiny hands and fingers, before looking back at the other.

And now he was awake too. He had Legolas’ eyes. Legolas didn’t think he had seen any child look more like an elf than this one – and to think he had been scared of it in a way. He only admitted it to himself now that he could see the idea was ridiculous. The child was so much like him; he hadn’t inherited anything from the dark lord at all. Sauron’s child blinked, and then yawned tiredly. He was completely innocent, anyone could see that, and Legolas made a silent vow to show him his rightful home one day. Nothing lasted forever, and they would leave here together. Sauron’s child sighed then in satisfaction and his eyes closed again. Legolas was as caught by that sound as the young one’s had been by him when he spoke. He was perfect. They both were.

* * *

Watching. Waiting. It seemed he spent much of his time engaged in these two activities, but at least he saw what he wanted to see this time. The children began to feed from Legolas, just as they should. They were going to survive – all three of them. Sauron smiled secretly in the shadows, already planning his child’s education. He was important, more so than the elf realised. He was a Prince of elves and darkness, and would take the fight to Valinor eventually. _They_ would not be able to refuse him welcome. There would be no refuge, no sanctuary. He already had a name, a name Sauron had given him. But now was not the time to reveal it. His own words from earlier came back to his mind now, as if they could taunt him.

_You have no place here._

He heard himself sigh, and with a start of surprise he realised he was actually tired. Well, that was to be expected. Controlling Legolas and the demands of the operation he had performed had taken a lot of his strength and concentration. He congratulated himself silently for his complete success, giving Legolas and the children one last look before he left them alone. He would have the uruk-hai move them to their room later. Now he would rest, and when he awoke he would free Maglor. His mind quietened down again at the prospect. Yes, it was time. He hoped Maglor would give in to temptation this time when it was offered. It would be a perfect reward for his work here.

 

Translation:

_Hîr nín_ – my Lord  



	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Fourteen

It was the same! How could he have forgotten it? Everything – exactly how it looked when he left. Or more correctly when he was dragged away. The meaningless graffiti chalked on the walls, the torches that didn’t quite illuminate enough of the shadows, and the smell. It was a large cell, actually larger than he remembered. But he _did_ remember this place.

His gaze dropped to the floor and for a moment he saw himself. His face pushed into their filth and excrement. Them! He looked up again, and for a wild, frenzied moment he thought that even they were the same. They had been waiting for him, to carry on where they left off! His heart was beating so fast and heavy he could hear it roaring in his ears. He looked around, and he couldn’t shake the impression. There was nothing to distinguish them. The same desperate fear in their eyes, the same rags clothing them, the same hopeless despair. Maglor could taste it on the stale air.

And in the midst of all this, in spite of his panic and terror, there was enough of his mind free to think about Sauron. He had been left here for punishment, and the dark lord’s last words came back to him now. Did he deserve it? Of course he did. He deserved everything he was made to endure at Sauron’s hands, because true forgiveness was still not his. And he deserved this for his disloyalty too, in a way. Why had he encouraged Legolas to keep secrets? It wasn’t as if it could help him. There was no escape. Not from him.

But still, he couldn’t resign himself to the fate Sauron expected. He wondered why, and then he knew. Because his Master was no longer here. Sauron couldn’t see what was happening, didn’t know if his wishes were granted, and Maglor felt ignored. He almost laughed. Was this how far he had come? To be insulted because Sauron would not be an audience to his pain and suffering? He conceded it as the truth, and in doing so he found his resistance. If Sauron was not going to take pleasure from watching this, then why should he play along?

Straightening up, Maglor looked around him with different eyes. Yes, they were afraid and desperate. They might even be cruel and dangerous, but they were human. _And they were not the same prisoners as before_. A coolness descended on his mind as he assessed the situation. He was alone here, and he was not being watched. To suffer at the hands of his Master might well be inevitable, and deserved. To suffer at the hands of these wretched men was not. They were no better than animals in a place like this, and he had experienced that for himself. He would not allow his fear to make his nightmares real this time.

There was a large up-turned barrel in the centre of the cell, and Maglor strode towards it, only one thought in his mind now. Water! He used the cup that floated on the surface at first, but then he couldn’t get enough and he scooped it up in his hands to drink, to wash away the exhaustion. It was flat and covered with a layer of scum, but it didn’t matter. It was as sweet and cool as any water he had ever tasted. He ignored the other prisoners for now – they could wait.

Only when he had taken his fill did he face them. He looked around. There were about ten men here, give or take a couple. Most of them were young, or had been when they were brought here. Fear tended to make men grow old too quickly. He caught the gaze of one or two, and looked into their eyes, waiting. He smiled, satisfied, when they dropped their gaze first, and moved on to others. Who was the leader around here? Surely they had one.

Then one of them caught his eye. A quiet man, sat apart from the others. He gave off an aura of calm – surely it was him. Maglor started to walk towards him. He had the look of a ranger, so deliberately peaceful. Maglor only realised his mistake when a hand grabbed his arm. He turned and looked at the man who held him.

“Yes?” he barked out harshly, glaring at the man and shaking his hand away indignantly at the same time. He was a heavyset man. He looked much the same as the others to Maglor. Tangled, dirty hair. An unshaven face. Desperate eyes.

“Who are _you_?” He spoke with an affected drawl. It was too casual, and Maglor knew he was being tested. But he couldn’t rid himself of the idea that they were more like animals than men in here, and he answered before he could stop to think.

“I am Maglor, of the house of Fëanor.” He heard the arrogance in his voice, and he berated himself for it. That would not help him here. “Who are you?”

“‘Maglor of the house of Fëanor,’” the man said laughingly, not bothering to answer Maglor’s question. He looked around at the few prisoners that shadowed him. “Did you hear that, lads?” Then he looked back at Maglor. “Brandir…” he gave with a mocking bow of the head. “Of the house of… Brandir.” He laughed again, and then he lowered his voice threateningly. “You know, whatever ‘house’ you live in, it’s not polite to enter someone else’s place and drink of their water without permission.”

Maglor narrowed his eyes. “I completely agree,” he said coldly. “And I’ll be asking for permission if I ever find myself in your house.”

The man only grinned at him. “Clever little bastard, aren’t you?”

“Well, I’d say that makes us even then,” Maglor replied, all pretence at avoiding conflict gone. He would not be the first to back away from this.

“Even?” The man snorted at him. “Oh, yes… I can see how ‘even’ you think we are. The truth is in your eyes.” He came closer, daring Maglor to move back. The human didn’t understand or was too stupid to realise that Maglor had been dealing with people long before his ancestors were born, and Brandir’s next words weren’t a surprise at all. Maglor almost laughed. “But don’t worry, I think we speak the same language… _elf_.”

“Then you’ll understand me when I tell you to back off, won’t you?” Maglor challenged. He watched Brandir steadily, until the man began to move away from him. Maglor kept staring.

“I’m watching you,” Brandir stated. “Keep that in mind.”

Maglor laughed and watched until Brandir turned away. It didn’t matter about that one, but he still wanted to know who the quiet man was. He had an air of authority.

“You know who I am,” Maglor stated simply, looking down at him. He must have heard the exchange of words with Brandir. “Who are you?”

The human looked up into his eyes. The paranoia and fear was absent from him, as if he was at peace with his fate. “They call me Beren,” he said with a shrug. And then he smiled, and nodded at Maglor intriguingly.

“You _do_ know me, don’t you?” Maglor sat down beside the man. How was it that a man could know of him. He had been missing for centuries. And from Legolas’ reaction he knew that his name was even disappearing from the minds of his own kin.

“Yes, but don’t worry.” Beren smiled. “I think your memory is beyond them… and him.” Maglor searched the man’s eyes. How easily he could take Brandir’s place! And then it seemed the human was capable of surprising him further, because he seemed to read Maglor’s thoughts. “Why should I?” he asked.

“You are a leader.” It was the truth. But he already knew that, didn’t he?

“Where would I lead them to?” he asked, gesturing around at them. “They don’t need me, they need distraction. Do you know what it is like to face certain death?” He looked at Maglor earnestly. “Can you tell me how to accept it? Can you tell them?”

“No,” Maglor admitted, and the man smiled again.

“Well, then…” He let his words trail off, still looking into Maglor’s eyes. Suddenly he looked genuinely surprised. “You would follow me?”

“If I could. If I was forgotten.” It was an ironic thing to say, and Maglor smirked. He couldn’t help it. But with that it seemed the spell was broken, because the man didn’t understand the joke. Maglor sighed and resigned himself to waiting for a while. The man’s words returned to him… ‘They don’t need me, they need distraction.’

Looking around, Maglor’s gaze fell on a couple of younger men who were arguing between themselves in hissing whispers a few feet away. One of them glanced at Beren. “Tell him…”

“Tell him what?” Maglor asked, when Beren remained steadfastly ignorant.

The two looked at each other uncertainly, and then seemed to come to a decision. They came over to Maglor and one of them began to speak. “I heard it from a man who was here when I arrived. He went away, one night…” For a moment fear darkened his face, and Maglor realised how very young he was. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five. Maglor looked around the cell and corrected himself. How young they all were, especially for this. “But that doesn’t matter,” he carried on hastily, as if he feared losing Maglor’s attention. “He said there were tunnels down here somewhere.”

Distraction. Maglor decided to give it to them. “Yes, there are. What do you know about them?” he asked, showing his interest.

“Not much – do you know something?” Now hope began to burn, and the mood shifted in the cell as more of the prisoners began to listen to what was being discussed. “Tell us,” he urged. Maglor had heard of the same thing the last time he was here… Tunnels. It was a desperate dream. Obviously the idea had caught on, and had been passed down over the years. Maglor was surprised the idea wasn’t more elaborate after all this time. It made him feel a little uncomfortable. It should have the feel of a legend, but it didn’t. He should rectify that.

“The tunnels run underneath Mordor,” he said. “I have heard they extend as far as its borders. They are for the orcs, who built them to avoid the weak sunlight that filters through the clouds of ash and smoke here.” As a lie it was good enough, and it _was_ distraction. It took their thoughts away from the truth. For a moment Maglor envied them, as he had before. They would all escape, just perhaps not the way they wanted to.

“Do you know where the entrance is?” Somebody new asking this time, and Maglor looked up. Immediately the new speaker dropped his gaze. Why hadn’t it been this easy the last time? Maglor searched his memory, trying to remember when the atmosphere had changed, along with his place. He couldn’t recall it.

“No, I’ve never found them – but we are not far away.” He caught himself, realising he sounded as if he was thinking of something else. “I’m sure of it,” he added with certainty.

“Excuse me for breaking up your little escape team.” Brandir. Maglor stifled a sigh and turned to face him. Brandir pointed. “I just want him.”

“What do you want, Brandir?” Maglor asked with undisguised impatience.

“Me? Oh, I just want you to settle a little bet. You see, we have an argument.” He gestured to his cronies. “They think that you are just like us. But I think differently.”

“Well, I’m not like _you_ , if that’s what you mean.” He wondered if Brandir was actually intelligent enough to catch the insult.

“I find myself wondering who you are, what you’re doing here. I wonder who you were begging to let you out. I’m sure you wouldn’t beg orcs like that.” His smile was sickening, and twisted.

“Leave it.” It wasn’t even a warning. It was an order. Maglor advanced on Brandir, leaving the small group that had clustered around him as the human backed further away.

“It was him, wasn’t it?” he taunted. “Because I think you belong to him. You’re his little elf.”

“You don’t know anything about me!” Maglor grabbed hold of Brandir’s clothes and shook him.

“Oh, but I do… now.” The man sniggered. “What do you do for him? But then I don’t really wonder. All I have to do is look at you.” And then he did look Maglor up and down. “Naked, clean, you almost gleam. How does it feel to be his pet? Does he satisfy you? Do you get down on your knees for him? Does he make you want him first, or does he just fuck you?” It was too much, and Maglor didn’t realise he had hit out until he saw the blood on his hand. He looked over at Brandir, now stood some distance away from him, and he was touching his cut lip, still laughing.

“I see…” he said suggestively. Maglor only glared and advanced on him again. He would pay for that. Suddenly he found arms holding him back, and away. He struggled and Brandir only looked at him. “Well? You can go back to your little group now.” He waved his hand dismissively. “I won the bet.”

“I’ll see you die!” Maglor growled lowly. “I’ll watch. That’s a promise.”

“Watch? Watch, you say?” The two of them finally broke their heated gaze, and turned to look at the speaker.

“I’ve seen it.” Now it was the turn of a man who huddled against the wall at the opposite side of the cell. Until now he had been silent. “I’ve been here the longest.” He uttered a high-pitched laugh, and it made the hair stand up on Maglor’s neck. “It comes for you in the night,” he said, looking around conspiratorially. “A giant wolf!” he finished with an awed whisper, and Maglor could almost sense the rest of the prisoners hiding their shivers.

“Who asked you anything?” demanded Brandir scornfully, scowling at the man so that he hissed back. “One piece of advice I’ll give you, elf – don’t listen to him. He’s insane.” There was no pity for the man in Brandir’s expression, just a kind of offended contempt. Someone like Brandir would be offended by madness.

“Am I?” the man said with a snort of laughter. “Ask yourselves where Dior went.” Now his voice dropped again so that even Maglor wanted to shake him and make him be quiet. “It came while you were all asleep. Black and terrible. _Sniffing_ around the place before it took him.” Most of the prisoners gazed at the man with open fear now, as he began to draw deep breaths in through his nose, crawling on the small piece of floor he had claimed for himself. It was an uncannily credible impression of an animal. Or a wolf. Maglor knew, and he was suddenly afraid.

“Well – by my reckoning you are the next,” Brandir said coldly. He looked at one of the men who were currently holding Maglor back. “Better start taking his rations away – he won’t be needing them soon.”

“Stay away from me!” the man shouted, gathering his cup and his bowl close to him as if someone was going to steal them. Brandir laughed harshly at that, then turned his attention back to Maglor.

“I’d put my money on you having been here longer than him – much longer. Nothing will drag you away in the night, will it… _pet_?” Maglor looked into Brandir’s eyes with pure loathing, smiling a little when Brandir flinched. But it was Maglor who was in trouble. The men still held him, and at a signal they pushed him back against the wall. Brandir walked over to him slowly.

The man stood close to him, so close that in any other circumstances Maglor would have turned away. He kept the eye contact though, until Brandir forcibly turned his head and whispered to him. “Won’t you tell me what he calls you?” Brandir licked over the side of Maglor’s face, and again Maglor struggled. The human only laughed. Now he reached down to caress Maglor’s soft member. He wouldn’t cry out. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “Is it ‘pet’, or something else?” Brandir continued insinuatingly. Maglor didn’t even alter the pattern of his breathing.

“Does he tell you you’re beautiful?” he asked sarcastically. Maglor almost cried out at that. No! Centuries upon centuries of training came to the forefront of his mind and took over. Maglor cursed inwardly, feeling himself react helplessly to the word. In his mind he saw Sauron, dark and dangerous, looking down at him triumphantly, gloating, laughing. Beautiful.

Brandir laughed depreciatively when Maglor’s body finally responded to his rough caress. “He does, doesn’t he?” he asked in contemptuous disbelief. Maglor was already lost. He had closed his eyes, seeing himself in another place with someone else.

“Imagine I am him,” Brandir continued. “Touching you like this. And I call you beautiful.” Again Maglor responded, but there was a sarcasm in Brandir’s tone that Sauron never had, not when he said that, and it brought Maglor back. He opened his eyes again.

“You have no idea what you’re saying, man!” he hissed. And the human didn’t know. The word didn’t mean what he thought it did; it wasn’t used that way at all.

“Oh?” Brandir whispered the word over and over, and Maglor moaned despite himself, remembering thousands of nights with Sauron. Taught to desire his suffering and pain, trained to ask for it. Saying thank you for his torment… and meaning it. Maglor had nothing that was not his to take, and use, and play with. Was nothing but his pleasure made flesh. Sauron was perfectly sadistic and cruel, demanding and capricious. There were rare, tender moments that Maglor would go through anything for, and at those times the dark lord gave him the word. Beautiful had changed in Maglor’s mind. When he heard it he remembered his despair, his anguish and his humility before Sauron. But it meant none of those things. It meant thank you.

“Stop!” he cried out at last, the images in his mind too much to deal with. He saw his own fate laid out before him as a path he couldn’t stop himself from walking down. Waiting and wanting to be rescued before he reached the end – the destination. He knew what Sauron wanted when he looked deep inside himself, but it would never come to pass; they would forgive him first. Maglor cherished his hope secretly, astounded that Sauron couldn’t destroy it. Sometimes he wondered if the dark lord even knew it was there.

“Beg me,” Brandir whispered savagely, and Maglor saw the dark lord again. He closed his eyes, losing himself to some unnamed memory at the man’s touch. How many times had he been here? Sometimes it seemed Sauron kept him on the very edge for hours, teasing him. It was a game Maglor never won, even when he was given permission, because it was never given for his sake. It never meant freedom. But he begged for it every time regardless.

“Aulendil!” He cried out his Master’s name into the silence of the cell and he knew it was all over. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he didn’t get an answer. That voice. One simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to end it. Instead he was left wanting, as he had been so many times, yearning for Sauron to finish it.

The warmth of the hand on his hot, needy flesh left, and Maglor groaned, unable to lose the daydream, wanting to call out again. Brandir only laughed, and that brought Maglor back to his senses fully. But he didn’t have time to regret what he had done as Brandir slammed his fist viciously into Maglor’s stomach. His head fell down, tears stinging in his eyes as he tried to regain his lost breath. The fist flew up and caught him on the jaw, making his head snap back only to hit the hard stone of the wall behind him with a frightening thud.

Dizzy and panting, Maglor was thrown to the floor. Dimly he realised that this was the memory he had when he first faced the cell. Maybe it had also been a premonition. He began to crawl, using his elbows to pull himself away so that he would be able to recover and get up again to face them, but it was already too late. Why had he lost? But that didn’t matter. Not when he felt Brandir’s body covering his. He was outraged, disgusted and offended. He didn’t want this. Despite his injuries he tried to throw the man off him, but then the other prisoners held him down, and kept him still.

Behind him he felt the man free himself. His hardness pushed against Maglor for a moment, and then the pain came. He promised himself he wouldn’t scream, and he didn’t. It had started. He tried to fight, tried to make it difficult, but it was impossible. Brandir was already inside him, already knew that he was prepared for this. Oiled and ready, as he always was for Sauron. Brandir laughed scornfully. It was a laugh that was a distant relation of real pleasure.

“Oh, you’re perfect, aren’t you? You know what I think?” Maglor refused to answer, and instead threw everything he had into getting away, until he spied the youth. He had been sat alone in the corner all this time, Maglor hadn’t even noticed him. Now he did, and he felt a choking kind of sympathy for him. He was thin and filthy, so young he was little more than a child. Old tears had made tracks down his dirty face, and he suddenly knew whose place he was about to take. The boy looked up and caught his eye, and Maglor looked back. He was just a teenager! Maglor stopped fighting, allowing the human to take what he would from him. He even answered his words, encouraging him to continue.

“No, I don’t.” Brandir leaned down so that Maglor could feel his warm breath on the back of his neck. He lay still now, but so did Brandir. Favouring stillness for the moment so that he could say his poisoned words in a roughened voice that only superficially hid his fear. He was the most frightened here by far, Maglor realised. Far more scared than the boy he had obviously been tormenting before Maglor arrived.

“I think _he_ wants his toy to have a bit of rough,” he said gleefully. “Far be it from me to disappoint. I’m only human, after all.” And with that he began to take Maglor violently, trying to hurt him, and Maglor did cry out now. But then in the middle of it all, he caught sight of Brandir’s hair moving alongside him where he lay on the floor. How he hadn’t noticed it before he had no idea. But now he did, and he began to laugh. Brandir thrust into him so cruelly that tears came to Maglor’s eyes, and he held himself there.

“What are you laughing at?” he demanded, as if Maglor had lost his senses and it offended him in some way. In fact, he spoke with the same contempt he kept for the maddened prisoner. Maglor stopped laughing to speak.

“Your hair…” Brandir’s hair was red and vibrant, even through the dust and filth. Maglor knew what it meant. “You’re next,” he said, knowing he was making a prediction and not really caring anymore. It was over. It wasn’t really funny, but he couldn’t help himself, although he stopped laughing when he heard Brandir’s next words.

“Oh, no. You have it all wrong, elf. I’m _first_.”   



	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Fifteen

_Arms were holding him, bringing him back to face hell – and he fought them._

“Shh…quiet.” A familiar voice, hushing him. The darkness, the warmth. He nearly opened his eyes, having fallen into the habit of sleeping with his eyes closed. But then he decided against it as gentle kisses rained down on his face like snowflakes. And it really was true. He had returned to take him away, to rescue him.

“It’s you.” He didn’t need to see to know. He didn’t need to open his eyes because then the dream would flee.

“Yes.” A sudden feeling of grateful happiness. But then sadness. It had been so long, and he had been lonely.

“I knew you wouldn’t forget about me.” The length of time since he had felt this nearness made him weep. And his words would have been an accusation, if he wasn’t so desperate to keep the speaker here with him, close to him. Desperately he clung to the dream.

“I never do, you know that.” The speaker sounded slightly reproachful. His heart felt full. He needed something else.

“Forgive me, hîr nín.” Knowing at last that he might be forgiven, that it might be time to leave here. Frightened that it might be time to awaken.

“Yes, now I do.” Reassurance. Then something cold and hard was pressed into his hand. His fingers closed around it, and he almost cried out when the presence withdrew, forgetting the command to stay quiet, wanting to implore the darkness to stay, to stay with him. It had been so very long. But he was left alone again.

The dream was over, but sleep remained.

* * *

He awoke silently, and as was his wont he lay still with his eyes closed, regulating his breathing, hiding his wakefulness from the others, and from Brandir. How long had he been here now? He didn’t know. None of the prisoners had been replaced though, and it had surely been a while. He had become a plaything of Brandir’s, every time he would have fought, every time he would have refused him entertainment was countered by the scared, apprehensive glances of the boy that was more or less left alone now. How could he leave the torment for him to endure? His fate was pathetic enough.

And so he didn’t fight. And Brandir knew why. He had noticed them together, The boy comforting him when he was bleeding and hurt, not understanding that he would heal quickly, only concerned for his pain. How could he leave him to Brandir? He couldn’t.

He shuddered when he remembered the things that Brandir had him doing for the promise to leave the young one alone. And the others went along with him, didn’t they? He couldn’t have won them over to his side now if he had been one of their Gods. They didn’t want to be themselves. It would force them to face their fear. Something they were all trying desperately to avoid. So he became their entertainment. Their _distraction_. Even the man Beren had taken his turn, and that dispelled the last hope Maglor had of any escape.

He was still tired, and it was a feeling he remembered from before, as if his sleep had been disturbed. He closed his fists, trying to remember that they were only mortal, and that he should have sympathy. It was then that he felt the coldness in his hand. The dream! It hadn’t been a dream at all. He opened his eyes, hardly daring to believe. He lay face down on the floor, where Brandir had left him, and so his hair hid his eyes, and the dagger he held in his hand. He looked at it, and he knew what it was for. He almost threw it from him, as he had once before, so many years ago, but then he groaned in pain when a well-placed kick found its way to his ribs.

Brandir was awake. He kicked Maglor almost casually as he walked past him, and under the concealment of his hair, Maglor’s righteous anger began to burn. He still didn’t move, but he watched Brandir relieving himself on the other side of the cell, the acid stench of his urine finding its way through the air, making him gag. Hate was something he couldn’t help but feel. However much he pitied them, some mortals deserved nothing less than their fate. A short life.

When Brandir walked back towards him, Maglor readied himself. He would have one chance. Just one. It would be enough.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing? Lying around sleeping when I’m already awake. Come on, elf. Wake up. You need to clean me now with that talented mouth and tongue of yours.” He aimed another kick at Maglor. Through the veil of his hair, Maglor saw the look of spite and hatred on Brandir’s face. It made him look twisted. And just before the foot found its way to his ribs again, he made his move.

Turning quickly, he grabbed hold of Brandir’s other foot and pulled it from under him. The surprise of the attack caught him completely unawares, and he lost his balance, falling to the floor. In an instant Maglor was upon him, and he just had time to register the look of stunned disbelief on Brandir’s face, before he plunged the dagger deep into his stomach.

Seething with an anger that had been building up all the time he had been here, Maglor took hold of Brandir’s neck with his free hand. He remembered every despicable act he had been forced to perform, and it lent him a strength that he didn’t believe he still possessed. He stood up, bringing Brandir with him through the grip on his throat. He pressed him backwards, holding him up, until he had Brandir pinned against the wall. And his words when he spoke were full of nothing but contempt.

“I am not your toy,” he spat out. “I am Maglor Fëanorion. I am centuries old – of a race and time you can’t even comprehend.” He gave Brandir a grim smile now, seeing his shock at having someone he thought was his servant turn against him so suddenly. “Did you forget to fear me?”

Blood bubbled up through Brandir’s lips as he tried to utter a word, and it didn’t matter what he wanted to say. Maglor continued over the man’s feeble attempts to speak. “You should be thanking me for giving you an easy way out of here. Now you have only your fading pain to face, instead of your fear.” Maglor smiled again. “Coward.”

Now Brandir managed to speak, and his words were as poisonous as ever. “I hope he never lets you go, elf.” Maglor was furious, and he didn’t even notice the blood that Brandir sprayed over his face and neck when he spoke. He twisted the blade.

“Do you feel that?” he almost shouted. “Tell me!” he demanded, noting for the first time pain in Brandir’s expression. Had it been there from the start?

“Yes!” Brandir gurgled. It was barely a word, spoken as it was through the blood in his throat. Maglor could feel the warmth of the man’s life spreading over his hand and his wrist. He let Brandir go, pulling the dagger from him at the same time, and the man crumpled to the floor. It would be a slow death. A painful death. It was no more than he deserved. He stood over the twitching body on the floor, and hoped Brandir could still hear him through his agony.

“Then experience your death. Like the sun sets, red and lingering, ending in darkness. And know it is the only thing I ever truly gave you.”

With that said, Maglor turned away from his victim, only to have his wrist grabbed by someone. A familiar figure. Tall, forbidding. Sauron.

Maglor dropped the dagger, and it clattered on the ground beside them. Everything was forgotten when the dark lord looked at him. Everything but him. Maglor’s heart lifted in gladness at that dark presence, and all he wanted was to fall into his embrace, to belong to him once more. Sauron’s eyes glittered as he looked at Maglor. He was amused, Maglor realised.

“Ah, still such a romantic, Maglor. I thought your abilities had dimmed with the passing of time.” He smiled sardonically. “‘Like the sun sets…’” he quoted with an extravagant gesture. “Yes.”

Now he was aware of the blood that covered him, because Sauron was aware of it. His gaze travelled over Maglor slowly, then came back to his eyes. “Magnificent.” He looked at Maglor’s hand, and brought it down to his lips to kiss his palm, inhaling deeply at the same time. “Beautiful.”

The word meant something to him. It meant he had done something right, and he celebrated in his heart and soul, ignoring the small voice that cried out against the unnatural feeling. What did that voice matter? It had never helped him, not here. In a deep, hidden part of his mind, he knew that all his troubles stemmed from choosing to ignore that voice. Including his being here. But it was too late now, and he ignored it once more. Every time it grew quieter, and Maglor knew that one day it would disappear entirely.

“This is your doing, _mûl vain nín_. Look at it,” Sauron whispered, as if in awe, drawing back and letting him go. Maglor looked around him, and the voice was back, crying out loudly at what he had done. Brandir lay writhing in agony, holding his stomach as if he was trying to stop the flow of his life's blood onto the stone floor. The other prisoners had huddled together at the other side of the cell, fear and horror on their faces. It was a moment before Maglor realised that their fear was not only directed at Sauron, but also at him.

He looked down, seeing himself for the first time. He was covered in blood, as if it could hide his nakedness. He saw himself as they must see him. It wasn’t the violence or the blood that had scared them, it was him. The sudden attack, and his words. They had mistreated him because he was different, and they were scared of him, he knew that. He would never appear as dirty or as rough as they did, whatever happened. He must seem like perfection to them. His was the vengeance of an angel.

Why had he done it? They were terrified, and mortal, and he had known all along it wouldn’t last forever, hadn’t he? Nothing lasted forever, even his Master’s anger. But when he looked at Brandir, and he remembered how the man had taunted him, using _their_ word against him… Maglor shook his head. He was not sorry – he didn’t have it in him to feel pity for Brandir. He looked away from it all to Sauron.

Monsters. That is what they were – what they both were. These pitiful humans were the innocents here, and if Maglor was sorry for something, it was that he had destroyed their fragile peace. And then he started, because he realised what he was thinking. He and Sauron were not the same. Maglor couldn’t be like him – it was impossible. “No,” he said, shaking his head in denial.

“Yes,” Sauron insisted. “Taste it.” And then the kiss finally came. It was what he had longed for, dreamed of, hungered after. And he could taste Brandir’s blood in the kiss. Sauron’s lips were covered in it still, from when he had kissed Maglor’s palm. The taste of his death. But being close to Sauron again after all this time made him forget, because he was aware of nothing but him. For a single, timeless moment they were really together. Lovers, Master and slave. Both killers, both of them for that instant conscienceless. But it had to end, and it did. Sauron stepped back again.

“I know what you need, _mûl nín_.” He sighed, but then smiled, showing the briefest flash of white teeth. “I will be cruel. It will be painful, and harsh, and I will not listen to your screams for mercy. I will not give you absolution. All I offer is pain and suffering.” Maglor simply nodded, accepting it. He needed to be hurt. To pay for his crimes, this newest one most of all. Because if he didn’t, then he was no better than him, no more deserving of forgiveness. His hope wavered, and he knew what he had to do to strengthen it. But then the dark lord continued.

“Or, of course, you could stay here. It will not be the same now. I think they will leave you alone, don’t you?” Maglor looked around him for the last time. There was nothing for him here. And he had never wanted to be alone. He stepped forward.

“That’s right,” the dark lord said with another smile. “Come to me.” Sauron didn’t sympathise with his need for forgiveness from the Valar, but he did understand punishment, all too well. It was what Maglor wanted now, and what he needed. It was something he desired for himself. He would always choose it – surely the dark lord knew that? Maglor almost laughed then in realisation. Of course Sauron knew. He was perfect. Maglor had no secrets from him; his hope was only another tool in Sauron’s hands.

Sauron reached forward and curled a stand of Maglor’s hair around his index finger. He looked at the hair thoughtfully.

“Did it have to be him?” Sauron asked, slightly amused and yet at the same time actually regretful. Maglor gasped and looked into his Master’s eyes at the cold truth. _Don’t tell me_! His mind screamed. _Don’t make me really see this_. Outwardly, Maglor was quiet, only a slight trembling at the realisation that he had been right. _And every time… it’s me_. He saw his own death in those dark eyes – a thousand of them. He shivered.

“Well?” Maglor jumped, realising he hadn’t yet given an answer.

“Yes, _Hîr nín_. I am sorry,” he said quickly, bowing his head respectfully. And although he expected what came next, he still couldn’t suppress a shudder.

“Of course you are.” Sauron laughed softly. He paused, then dropped the strand of hair. “I think it will do you good to watch, next time.” There was no doubt at all what Sauron meant.

“Yes, _Herdir_.”

* * *

He was back. Maglor didn’t struggle against the feeling. He went with it, breathing deeply and closing his eyes. He swallowed. Sauron liked to see him struggle, but only when it came naturally, and Maglor wouldn’t dare to act for him. Really the only way to please him was to give in. He remembered, helpless to stop the terrible healing of his mind, and he whimpered quietly.

Imagination provided him with a vision of Sauron watching him, and he had to open his eyes, to show the dark lord what was happening to him. But Sauron wasn’t there; Maglor was alone. He had never been alone before, not with this.

“Why?” Maglor whispered to the emptiness, and then he began to cry. His memories were as broken as he was, but he found himself drawn back now, back to the very beginning…

* * *

Maglor wandered for so long after it was all over, wishing and hoping for something to change, for something to have been different – but it wasn’t. No matter which way he looked at it, they had been wrong, and now he was cast out. Unforgiven.

He slept when he was tired, ate when he was hungry, and wandered. He sang his lament to the stars at night, to the sun in daylight, and out over the sea as if he would make his voice heard in his homeland. Nothing answered him, until one evening he had the feeling he was being watched. He searched for the presence, but it was invisible, and Maglor feared he might be losing his mind.

Over the next few weeks the feeling didn’t leave him, it only grew stronger, until Maglor was crying out for it to reveal itself and pleading for acknowledgement. He threw himself down at times and lay prostrate on the white sand, whispering his shame for what he had done, accepting fully the terrible responsibility and hoping that it could be forgotten by those more perfect than him.

When the being finally did reveal itself, Maglor had fallen to his knees. He expected one of the Valar, or one of the Maiar, and surely he wasn’t disappointed. The presence had glided towards him in the moonlight, the stars themselves making the white robes he wore shimmer. Tall, and majestic, dark eyes and darker hair. He was ethereal. Maglor had looked up, in a posture of worship, grateful tears in his eyes.

He remembered it all so clearly. The sound of the waves breaking on the shoreline; the crisp, sea air that held the slightest promise of winter in the night. The year was getting late, growing old, and _he_ had stood before Maglor like the promise of spring. Hope. Then he smiled down at Maglor, and something in that smile made him uncertain. It was too broad. But he hadn’t even begun to guess at the truth, he thought the presence was there to explain only why he would never be forgiven.

“Please,” Maglor whispered, for the first of many times if only he had known it. The smile didn’t change, and when _he_ spoke, he reassured Maglor’s frightened soul.

“There is nothing to forgive.” Now he held out a hand, as if Maglor should take it, and he nearly did before the presence spoke again. “Would you like me to teach you?”

The question wasn’t right, it sounded out of place and context, and Maglor faltered, wondering what it could possibly mean. He looked around him. Suddenly the wind seemed to whisper a warning as it moved through the golden leaves of the trees that lined the edge of the beach. The sound of the surf roared in his ears like a scream. He looked up, and it was so dark that the stars themselves seemed to glow brighter for a moment against the blackness of the sky.

“Just take my hand,” the stranger urged kindly. There was such a feeling of power emanating from him, how could he be anything other than what Maglor supposed? Still, he hesitated, waiting for something else, but there was nothing. Maglor took the proffered hand, and then a shock passed through him. The dark lord couldn’t disguise who he was now, and Maglor tried to pull back but it was much too late.

Sauron pulled Maglor to his feet and up against him. Maglor struggled, staring in horror as the white robes darkened suddenly… to black. He couldn’t seem to stop it as the dark lord embraced him, and it was as if he was being swallowed by the darkness.

“No!” he cried out. But it sounded so quiet and hopeless, drowned out by the sea and the wind. Who would hear him? None but his enemy – _the_ enemy, he corrected himself. Sauron pulled him even closer, pressing their bodies together, and Maglor was aware of Sauron’s erection, thick and insistent against his belly. He was insulted by it, sickened, and he tried to break the dark lord’s grip, to free himself, but Sauron was much too strong, unnaturally so.

“Forgiveness,” Sauron mused, whispering into his ear while Maglor fought fruitlessly to get away from his arms. “What you want is already yours.” Maglor knew exactly who he was now, and yet his words had a ring of truth. He didn’t understand them, but somehow he knew they weren’t lies. He stopped fighting the embrace and decided to listen.

“What you need is perspective,” Sauron continued. “I will teach you this,” he looked at Maglor hungrily. “over time. And eventually you will thank me.” Maglor shivered.

Then Sauron laughed for the first time. “Forgiveness can be much more than comfort.” He paused, as if to think. “It can be beautiful.” Maglor didn’t understand, was sure he didn’t want to, and he only looked up at Sauron fearfully.

“You should not have waited for me, alone.” He wasn’t prepared for the dark lord to kiss him, and it took him completely by surprise. It was over before he could begin to struggle. A flash of an impression of soft lips brushing against his, an insistent tongue tasting him, and then it was gone. “So lonely and forsaken.” Now Sauron smiled in the darkness, his voice alight with amusement. “And impetuous. Now you are mine, _dannon nín, bÿr nín, mûl nín_.”

He wanted to protest, but then the strangest feeling passed through him. _He wanted this_. Being controlled by magic was a much more frightening concept to him than any of Sauron’s words, and he fought against it, but the desire he felt only became stronger, until he felt weakened, the intensity of it making him swoon in the dark lord’s arms. He was dimly aware of Sauron carrying him away before he escaped into a faint, and the dark lord’s words followed him into his dreams. My slave?

Maglor would never forget the first days, weeks, and months as Sauron’s plaything. And what he remembered was pain. Not that he had been tortured then. No, he hadn’t – despite his wish for punishment. That had come much later. But at first it had hurt to be with Sauron, and that was what he remembered. The dark lord hadn’t wasted an opportunity to show him his place, and Maglor had grown to expect being violated; it was as if Sauron couldn’t get enough of him. And he had learnt to serve the dark lord with his mouth. He was aware that Sauron used magic on him, he was experienced enough to tell the difference, and he saw through it. Sauron used him in every way he could, and Maglor didn’t know which he hated the most. He fell into the habit of preparing himself, and he recalled the exact moment when he realised what that meant – that he was accepting his treatment.

Oh, at first he had fought. Who wouldn’t? But that kind of resistance had to fade eventually. Sauron eroded his will over an unknown period of time; perhaps it had been a year or two. It didn’t matter what Maglor did, Sauron always won, and the times he didn’t struggle were the times that Sauron was less violent. Not considerate, never, not him. But he didn’t hurt Maglor quite so much. He had been taught to yield, and to accept, but he couldn’t remember when Sauron had begun to hurt him deliberately. It crept into his memories, but he did remember the first time Sauron had destroyed him, and taken his sanity. The awakening had been terrible. Screaming, begging for the pain to come back, and all the time Sauron had watched him, studied him, fascinated by his tears, wringing out his anguish with such well-chosen words that Maglor would have killed him – if he could – if he hadn’t been taught to love him.

You could learn such a thing, over centuries, when your only company was your pain and your pleasure. When your murderer was also your lover and your only friend. Sauron encouraged Maglor to confide in him, and he finally submitted to that after maybe five years? A decade? He told Sauron how different things affected him, how much it hurt, how it altered his feelings. He remembered a dark period, when Sauron had blinded him, and that had only brought them closer together. He learned to trust, and to obey the slightest order without question, ruled completely by sound and sensation. Indeed, by the time Sauron restored his sight, Maglor had only acknowledged it with a strange pang of regret that frightened him, and he confessed that too to his Master.

And Sauron was his Master now, in every sense of the word. The escapes which had peppered his early imprisonment were much less frequent now, and only attempted because it amused and distracted Sauron to bring him back – and to punish him. His body and its reactions did not belong to Maglor anymore, but to him. He was a captive, a toy, a plaything. An instrument for Sauron to play when he was bored with the world. And Maglor almost laughed when he reflected – and he realised that Sauron had kept his promise. He had learnt all about forgiveness. What he had learnt above all else was that there was always something new that Sauron could ask of him, there was always another step to take, another cruelty to submit to. He wondered if his being left alone now was the next.

What mattered was not this. He knew what Sauron wanted with him, and he believed with all his heart that it would never be his. The battle in his mind was not between Sauron and him, but between Sauron and the Valar. When the time came, he would be forgiven, and he would be allowed home. At times it was only this belief that kept him alive. He knew that Sauron’s magic would not be enough to stop him fading if he didn’t have something to wait for. And so he waited. Always patiently, but always with hope. And it didn’t matter that Sauron knew of it, or that he used it. It didn’t matter what he did. He _would_ lose in the end.

* * *

Opening his eyes again, Maglor prepared himself for loneliness, having no choice but to accept it, but again he was disappointed. He hadn’t looked around him at first, but now he did, and he realised he wasn’t alone at all.

Legolas lay beside him on the bed, turned away from him, curled up as though to protect something. And he looked different. Maglor gasped. While he was away it had happened. He forgot his own suffering then, and looked over Legolas’ shoulder to see. He rested his hand on Legolas’ waist, and he must have awoken him, for he only caught a glimpse of the two children before Legolas turned to face him.

“Maglor!” he exclaimed, reaching out to touch his face. Maglor could have made his name into an exclamation in the same way. He looked so tired and worn out. There were dark circles under his eyes, and there was a look in them that Maglor didn’t like to see – a look of age. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “Can you forgive me?”

Taken aback, Maglor just stared, and then he registered Legolas’ words. “Forgive?” he repeated. “You…?” He remembered how he had felt during the torture, when he had wished for the prince to feel guilty, to deserve his punishment, and he had been so wrong. He didn’t want to see this at all – his guilt. “There is nothing to forgive, _pen neth_.” He stopped then, a memory catching at his mind again, and he spoke the next words almost in a daze, feeling close to some truth. He could almost say it. “This is not your fault. This is just how it is.” Maglor searched for what he almost knew, almost realised. He knew it was important.

“Still, I’m sorry,” Legolas replied, and it only brought Maglor closer to that elusive something. He dropped his gaze to try and figure it out, and then he saw something else. Something that made him forget instantly. Legolas had a scar. It was fading, and it wouldn’t last, but it was there now. And he saw where the stitches had been. He reached down, letting his hand hover over the wound, almost touching.

“Oh!” Maglor moaned deeply, finally understanding what had happened while he had been away. He remembered Sauron’s words to him: ‘Oh, you don’t want _that, mûl nín_. Trust me.’ “No,” he shook his head and looked at Legolas, who suddenly shivered.

“Don’t.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Don’t ask me,” Legolas pleaded. Then he smiled, and Maglor was so gladdened to see it that he smiled too. “Look,” Legolas said, and moved to sit up on the bed so that Maglor could see the babies.

There were two of them. Legolas picked up the first one and smiled down at him. He was a blond elf – the resemblance between them was striking, and Maglor grinned to see them together. He looked at the other. Really, he had never in all his long life seen a creature like this. It looked like the uruk-hai, but it was perfect and unmarked like an elf. _He_ was all those things, Maglor thought suddenly. The little one awoke then and realised that his brother was missing.

In a feat of some skill, the little uruk-hai managed to lever himself up onto his elbows before falling back down. Maglor laughed, and shocked himself with the sound. The little one sighed dramatically and turned over to look. When he saw Maglor he stretched out his little arms demandingly, and Maglor made a move to comply. But then he thought to look at Legolas.

“May I?” he asked, almost timidly in the face of what Legolas had been through.

“Of course!” Legolas exclaimed with a laugh, and Maglor picked up the little one. Now Maglor got a closer look at his eyes, and he drew in a breath.

“He’s beautiful,” he breathed to Legolas, as the little one examined him curiously. Maglor giggled when the little uruk-hai suddenly threw his arms around Maglor’s neck.

Smiling, Legolas watched them both. Then he shook his head. “He’s Mithedhel,” he corrected gently. Maglor nodded, and then his gaze fell on the other, who was still asleep in Legolas’ arms.

“And him?” Legolas looked down at his child and thought for a moment.

“I don’t know yet,” he said with a small smile. “He hasn’t told me, have you?” The child did nothing, only slept, and Maglor wondered just how much of a toll this had taken on Legolas’ mind. Despite everything that Sauron had done to him, he couldn’t imagine what Legolas had been through. And he knew that he had something to keep him here, after all, even if it was only punishment. But what did the young one have? He watched them, and then he realised, and he relaxed a little. Legolas _did_ have them. He would survive. Maglor could only hope that Legolas would continue wanting to live as time passed. Neither of them knew what Sauron’s plans were. But certainly, Legolas would heal, in time. All of his injuries would.

 

Translations:

_mûl (vain) nín_ – my (beautiful) slave  
 _Herdir_ – Master  
 _Hîr nín_ – my Lord  
 _Dannon nín, bÿr nín, mûl nín_ – My fallen, my follower, my slave  
 _pen neth_ – young one  



	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saurons name for his child is made up of two words in Valarin; _Ezel_ (green), and Pathn (leaf)

Chapter Sixteen

The next few weeks, or was it months, everything felt new and exciting to Maglor. Mithedhel was the most curious child he had ever known; his inquisitive personality was infectious, and he took up much of Maglor’s time when Legolas was busy with the other. He had a name too now – Ezelpathân – Sauron had appeared to inform Legolas of it in a coldly amused way that had made the young elf cry. Maglor, of course, knew what it meant. Although it was not Quenya, the beginning of the name at least was close enough for him to guess – _ezel_ , meaning green – and the dark lord had ordered him not to tell. It seemed Sauron loved to come between them. Legolas had been angry with Maglor for a while, but then he seemed to give up, and the child’s name had been shortened to ‘Athân, which Maglor supposed must mean one thing. Leaf.

It was strange too, because although Legolas and the children were left alone, Maglor wasn’t. The dark lord still visited him at night, and now most of the time Sauron woke him up. It was like leading a double life, and Maglor was sure that if it hadn’t been for Mithedhel, he would be sleeping much of the day away.

And he was astonishing. With the stubbornness of the uruk-hai, he had soon learned to gain his feet for short periods, and sometimes could stumble around on his own for fully five minutes before falling down. But he was more intelligent than Sauron’s creations would ever be, and he loved to listen to Maglor and Legolas talk, gurgling sometimes as if he would make words of his own soon. His development was incredible to watch. Even the uruk-hai that brought them their meals were fascinated with him; they often picked him up just to get a closer look, and for Mithedhel’s part he was just as curious about them.

In comparison, ‘Athân didn’t seem to have changed much at all over the weeks. He still depended on Legolas for everything, and was never far from his sight. When he cried, which was often during the day, Legolas was the only one who could soothe him, and so Maglor left them together much of the time, only interfering when it was obvious to him that Legolas needed rest, after all his body still required time to recuperate. They argued about that too, and Maglor was disturbed slightly by the way Legolas let ‘Athân dominate his time, but he only mentioned it once. It wasn’t worth being hostile to each other about.

Because despite all this, the most wonderful thing now was their relationship. Being more or less left alone with only the children for company had been a blessing. Neither of them could forget where they were, but they could forgive each other easily, and they did. They lie together at night, and it was almost the same as it was at the beginning. But not quite, because what they had now was something that had matured, something stronger. There were no fights for dominance with them, and for Maglor at least that was a welcome change. Of course it was tinged slightly with bitterness. They both knew that Maglor would still do anything Sauron asked. But Legolas didn’t blame him for it now, and Maglor took comfort from that.

Sometimes he took Legolas, and sometimes it was the other way around. He had worried at first, because surely Sauron would know, but then nothing happened over it, and Maglor relaxed into this new existence, enjoying it. There were times he wanted to take Legolas, and it brought a kind of cathartic sense of relief, but there were also times he wanted to give something back to his lover, and he was happy that he could do so without either of them suffering for it.

* * *

He was Maia, and so he didn’t need most things, but that didn’t mean he had no cravings or appetites. His body was like a piece of clothing that he could discard at will, but he chose this form for the pleasure he could take from it. He didn’t need to eat, but he savoured food. He didn’t need to sleep, but he loved a luxurious bed. He didn’t feel the cold, but he delighted in keeping a fire. He didn’t need sex, but he revelled in Maglor’s desire for him. He was a hedonist. And in Maglor he had created the perfect vessel for all of his passions. Someone who not only wanted him, but also invited and willingly submitted to his cruel games and his tendency towards violence. Maglor was important to him. He didn’t need the elf, but it would be a terrible act of self-denial to do without him now. Maglor was almost perfect, almost his. There were very few things left to teach, and to show him. And here was the next.

Sauron stretched his long form out on the bed, and let himself fall back into the pillows. He was alone, at the moment, but now he called. He saw himself rising from the bed and leaving the room to haunt the corridors of his fortress. Like a breath of wind, he barely disturbed the dust as he passed. And when he reached the familiar door he drifted through it.

There he was. Maglor stood with his back to Sauron. He was singing some song or other to the child in his arms. It didn’t matter what it was. Legolas was asleep on the bed, with Ezelpathân.

_In another part of the fortress, on a bed, Sauron reached out a hand to the empty air in front of him._

The song continued past that line, but Maglor faltered in his recital of it. He shivered suddenly, when he felt an all-too-familiar hand touching his hair. He turned, and there was emptiness behind him. He and Legolas had made the room cosy between them, and Mithedhel helped. But now the room grew cold. “Yes, _Hîr nín_ ,” Maglor said quietly. “I hear you.”

He walked quickly over to the bed and placed Mithedhel next to his brother gently. He was asleep now; Mithedhel loved it when Maglor sang him to sleep and he hesitated for just a moment, realising how much he had grown to love them over such a short period of time. Real love. He knew there was a difference, but he couldn’t say what it was. Then he almost cried out. The ghostly hands were back, and they pulled at him, settled around his waist and clutched at his heart. Something about the touch was so intrusive; it wasn’t just the cold. And Maglor couldn’t help but allow the touch to draw him back, and away. He was being called, and he answered…

_Opening his eyes, Sauron pulled his arms back into his body and for a second it looked as though he might be holding someone close. But he was alone._

Walking through the darkness, Maglor looked almost possessed. He knew where he was going, and his steps were sure. He had made this journey a thousand times, maybe a million. Enough times to know every twist and turn on the way there. If there had been light enough to see, one would have noticed a vacant look to his eyes. But there was no one to see, and there wasn’t light enough. Perhaps there was an urgent whispering that followed his progress, but it was ignored.

When he reached the door in the pitch black, it was indistinguishable from the walls. But Maglor knew exactly where it was, knew where he needed to go. He didn’t knock; he was expected. He opened the door and light spilled out of the room. But then he closed it behind him and the corridor was in darkness again. The ghosts that walked this part of the fortress had the place to themselves once more. The whispering stopped.

* * *

From his place on the bed Sauron regarded his slave. The unseeing expression, the lifeless pallor of his skin. He opened his arms. “Come,” Sauron commanded, smirking slightly at his word choice, and Maglor obeyed. Only when the elf was in his arms did Sauron give back what he had temporarily stolen. Maglor gasped, as always he didn’t know exactly what had happened to him. That was good.

And true to his training he didn’t ask, didn’t make any remarks about suddenly finding himself in Sauron’s bed. He just began to do what was expected of him. The dark lord lay back and enjoyed Maglor’s attentions. The gentle kisses and caresses; the soft whispers and worshipful touches. There was no need to rush, never any need. They had a long time, and Sauron enjoyed every minute, letting Maglor’s ministrations wash over him like a calming wave.

When the touches and kisses became more sexual, then Sauron began to react to that too. Occasionally he arched upwards, or swore under his breath. And eventually he found himself with his hands in Maglor’s hair while his slave pleasured him with his mouth. Oh, he was flawless. There was no need for Sauron to be rough with Maglor, unless he wanted to be, of course. And he wasn’t now. Maglor took him deep into his throat each time. He always did exactly what Sauron wanted. And when it was over, Maglor placed reverential kisses all the way up his Master’s body and then settled down in his arms.

If he had been anyone else, Sauron might have felt the need to sleep. But he didn’t. Instead he turned his attention to Maglor, and his slave responded just as he should. Maglor was already hard and hungry for him, for his release, but he would have to be much more desperate that this to suit Sauron’s purposes. He knew that what he would shortly ask Maglor for was almost too much. A little encouragement would push him the rest of the way. A little, or a lot. Sauron smiled against Maglor’s skin. He was going to enjoy this game.

It was almost as if their roles had been reversed, because Sauron made love to Maglor in the same gentle, sweet way. But there was a difference. While Sauron had been quiet and relaxed, Maglor was needy and on edge. So few times had the dark lord treated him this way that several times he began to speak, uncertain of what was happening. Each time Sauron cut short his sentence or question with a kiss that stole his words and his breath.

Sauron too, took his time. He found himself relishing it all, the way Maglor moved and moaned at the things he did. And in the next hour or so he laid claim to every part of Maglor’s body… every part except one. And by the time he reached it, his plaything was already begging in wonderfully lost whispers. “No,” Sauron said, his voice all the warning Maglor could need. He almost kissed the sweet, yearning column of flesh. But he didn’t. He smiled and licked his lips, aware of his elf watching him. But then he only moved back up Maglor’s body, smiling against the smooth skin again when his prisoner moaned in disappointment. The last thing he wanted was to push Maglor over the edge. His aim was to get him as close to it as possible.

Now Maglor was breathing his name. “No,” Sauron repeated, enjoying the act of denying him, and his plaything actually swore at him in frustration like a bad-tempered kitten. Sauron allowed him that; he would punish him for it later. But for now the dark lord laughed softly, and began to prepare his elf for what was to come next. It was nothing so vulgar as applying oil. It was up to Maglor to make sure he was ready in that way. No, his preparation was to pull at one of his slave’s legs so that it was draped over his forearm, and to guide Maglor’s hand down to touch him. He looked into Maglor’s eyes, and thrust lightly into his hand, nudging at his entrance. His elf moaned beautifully, and it was then that Sauron finally felt a little jealousy. There was no need for it. He knew that Maglor and Legolas were bound to take comfort from each other. He had left them alone together for that very reason. But still, it was time to remind Maglor where his true loyalties lie.

“Do you want me?” he asked first.

“More than anything, _Hîr nín_ ,” Maglor sighed on an outward breath. Sauron smiled.

“More than him?” Sauron demanded, thrusting into his hand again, letting Maglor feel his length and girth.

“Yes!” Maglor cried out, then he whispered again. “Please, _Herdir_! I _need_ you.” Need? That was better. Sauron began to push into Maglor, but this time in contrast to others he was gentle. He let Maglor adjust to him before he made him take more, and he watched Maglor’s face at the same time. His eyes closed and he almost seemed to stop breathing. Usually this meant a ‘yes’, but this time it must be different. Sauron stopped and whispered to his prisoner.

“No, not yet,” Maglor began to cry then, and Sauron kissed his tears away with a smile. When he thought his slave could manage he began to move within him again. He angled his thrusts to pleasure him, so that Maglor trembled and begged again.

“Aulendil,” he pleaded, but using the name wouldn’t help him this time.

“No,” Sauron replied, as firm as Maglor was desperate. He moved slowly, almost lazily.

“I can’t, _Hîr nín_! Please, stop!” Maglor begged suddenly in a panic, more concerned with obeying Sauron’s will than giving in to his own pleasure, and Sauron did stop. But then he held Maglor’s face and looked deeply into his eyes.

“You won’t, _mûl nín_ ,” he warned. “You will wait, just as I say. I think you can take some more, yet.” And then he moved again, proving his words true when Maglor managed to get through it. And he came for the second time deep inside his slave a while later. He repeated the command of ‘no’ even then, and Maglor whimpered.

When he had calmed a few minutes later, and Sauron was still buried deep inside him, Maglor spoke again. “Did I not please you, _Hîr nín_?” he asked softly, still shaking, and there was such a note of regret and dismay in his voice that Sauron laughed. Again he kissed Maglor.

“Yes, you always please me,” he said, then smiled cruelly. He couldn’t help himself. “You please me so much that I’ll never let you go.” He felt his elf tighten up a little around him as though he remembered what freedom was, and then he relaxed. “Is that what you want to hear, _mûl vain nín_?”

“Yes,” Maglor replied instantly, and then he seemed to realise that it was the truth, because he began to cry again. “Yes, _Herdir_.”

The gentleness was a welcome change, and in some ways it seemed to accentuate his prisoner’s helplessness. But then, he had always known it could be like this. There would come a time when he could have Maglor precisely how he wanted him, all the time. Whether that was violently or gently. But now was not that time, and if he allowed his prisoner to become used to this treatment, he would be undoing all the work he had put in so far. He had patience. He could wait a little longer. Maglor would be his in the end, completely.

For now though, there were other things to do, and Sauron got up from the bed and led Maglor with him. There were two adjoining rooms to this one, and now they entered the first. Sauron dressed, then watched Maglor clean himself in the small bathroom, and when he was fresh and ready, the dark lord led his slave to the second of the rooms that were connected to his.

He pushed Maglor into the chamber before him. He already knew what was here, but he enjoyed hearing Maglor’s shocked intake of breath just the same. It wasn’t a large room, but it was larger than the bedroom. It was bereft of furniture and decoration. Indeed, this room was not in use most of the time. Once, when Barad-Dûr was being built, it had been the room Sauron kept Maglor in, when he had wanted the elf close to him. But he doubted that Maglor remembered that now.

Now all that remained of those times were the torches that burned on the walls, and the candelabra that hung from the centre of the ceiling. Sauron smirked; maybe his elf did remember that. But none of this was what had shocked Maglor. In the centre of the bare stone floor, asleep on a blanket of luxurious furs, was a human youth. He was naked and sprawled out as if he owned the place where he lay. One of his arms was flung out, and the other rested palm upwards beside his face, tangled in his red hair.

“ _Herdir_?” Maglor began uncertainly. “I don’t understand –”

“Yes, you do,” Sauron spoke smoothly over his first protest. Oh, Maglor knew very well what this meant, what it was about. Sauron could feel it in the way he trembled. But he didn’t know everything Sauron wanted of him yet. It was time to tell him.

“Take him,” Sauron suggested, speaking into his ear like a devil. “Don’t you want him? I brought him for us.”

“No…” Maglor shook his head at what Sauron was asking for, but then he suddenly cried out. Sauron smiled as he caressed Maglor’s erection, knowing that he still desperately needed the word. The word that would end it. He began to speak.

“I know what you need, what you want.” Maglor sighed and fell back against him. “You can’t hide it from me, _mûl vain nín_.” Now Maglor mouthed his name over and over, asking for permission. Sauron smiled again, and then continued. “And if you do this, then it’s a ‘yes.’” He felt the flesh in his hand harden even more. “You do want the ‘yes,’ don’t you?”

“Yes!” Maglor exclaimed, needing, longing. So beautiful!

“Then do it,” Sauron ordered, and let him go. And as Maglor walked forward, Sauron walked around the edges of the room. He would watch first.

* * *

Maglor lie down next to the youth and reached out to touch the hair that was so much like his. He wanted! Was it such a sin, anyway? The youth awoke even at that gentle touch, and immediately tried to get up. Maglor held him gently down to the furs, hushing him. The youth grabbed hold of Maglor’s shoulders and pulled him down, while he looked wildly around him.

“We were attacked! Orcs!” He looked panicked and irrational for a moment, as if he could only see what had happened before he lost consciousness. But then at last his eyes cleared, and he looked to Maglor. He wasn’t drunk, or drugged – but he may as well be. Maglor was well aware of the effect he had – elves would always be mysterious and bewitching to humans. But there was more at play than that. In the youth’s eyes Maglor saw himself reflected, saw Sauron’s magic at work. Nothing about his appearance had actually changed, but there was a glamour on him that made his skin appear all the softer, his hair shining and perfect, his eyes clear and bright.

“It’s all right,” Maglor began, and the youth looked at him as though he were staring at an angel or apparition. He thought he had been rescued! Maglor closed his eyes for a moment, sure he couldn’t go through with it – but then he remembered that Sauron was watching. And when he did this… Maglor almost moaned. He needed it so much! He didn’t dare look in the direction of the dark lord. That would give the game away. He would do whatever Sauron wanted, as always, and perhaps he could even make the youth’s last hour or so pleasurable.

“You’re safe now,” he lied, surprised at how simple it actually was. But then it wasn’t easy, because the youth looked up at him with such gratitude that Maglor felt it as a tight, constrictive pain in his chest. He swallowed.

“Please,” the youth began hesitantly, reaching up to place a gentle hand on Maglor’s shoulder, as if he was afraid to touch him. “My sister,” he said uncertainly, but then fear made him persevere. “She was with me. Is she…?” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The youth’s eyes were full of unshed tears, desperate to know but not wishing to hear the worst.

Aware that he had to be convincing, Maglor took the youth’s hand from his shoulder and laid it over his own heart, looking deeply into his eyes. “Rest easy. She is safe and well, and being cared for as we speak.” Maglor was certain that whoever she was, she was already dead. And such a death as girls and women met at the hands of Sauron’s orcs was something that could give even him nightmares. The youth looked up at him now with a glad smile and a kind of touching hope that made Maglor hate himself.

A single tear fell onto the youth’s upturned face. Maglor brought himself under control immediately. He couldn’t allow the youth to see he was lying – it would be a selfish thing to do. And then he did the only thing he could, something he wanted, something that would take the youth’s mind away from Maglor’s tears.

He leaned down and brushed his lips over the youth’s, hearing the startled hitch of breath, and feeling the hand in his begin to tremble and pull away slightly. Maglor held on tighter, and the youth didn’t protest, didn’t take the chance to ask a question or voice a complaint. Maglor knew what it was like when your desires were controlled by another, and he took advantage of it. Maglor kissed the youth again, more deeply this time, trying to weave a spell of his own to make the youth relax and give in to him.

Half thankful, and half sorry, Maglor took more when it worked. He led the inexperienced youth, teaching him how to touch and savour the feeling of skin stretched over muscle, guiding his hands. And he caressed and encouraged for himself. Centuries of experience at pleasing a demanding Master had made Maglor into an irresistible lover, and soon the chamber was filled with the youth’s whispers and moans. He was sweet in surrender, and in the midst of their lovemaking Maglor almost forgot what would happen afterwards.

Sauron was a constant dark presence on the edge of his vision. His shadow almost reached them where they lay, but Maglor didn’t look up once. When the youth was lost and desperate, Maglor began to prepare him as best he could. He didn’t have any oil, and so he made his fingers wet with his saliva and began to play around the youth’s opening.

“Please! Stop! I have not…” Maglor hushed him, brushing the hair away from his sweat dampened forehead gently. “But I don’t know how…” he pleaded in discomfort, wide-eyed and frightened. Maglor smiled.

“Shh… it’s all right. I’ll teach you. Trust me, _pen neth_.” Maglor made sure the youth was accepting and quiet again before he pushed one of his fingers just inside. “Relax for me,” he coaxed. “I’m not going to harm you, _pen neth_ , I promise.” The youth hissed and whimpered, but he tried his best to be calm and allow Maglor entry. He was so tight! This wasn’t going to work. Maglor made a decision, and took his hand away from the youth, only to move down and place his head between the youth’s thighs.

Now he moaned and sighed again for Maglor when he felt the elf’s lips move over his hardness. But that wasn’t what Maglor needed to do, and he flicked his tongue lightly over the length of the youth, and paused to roll the fleshy balls underneath around the inside of his mouth, before moving further back. He teased the tiny opening with quick swipes of his tongue. Now he was in barely remembered territory.

Playing a little, he began to push into the youth gently with his tongue, just enough for encouragement. The youth moaned and pushed against him. That was good. He went for more, and soon he was tonguing the youth’s opening fully. He paid attention to what he was doing, and rubbed his tongue over the sensitive flesh just inside the youth, nearly stopping to smile when he heard the young one cry out. Now he tried with his finger, and this time it was easier. The young one was still very difficult, but he could stretch and prepare him now. He began to do so, and it was then he heard the dark lord’s voice.

_Don’t make me wait, mûl nín._

The order made Maglor stop what he was doing, and he moved back up the youth’s body, removing his fingers so that he could position himself properly. With his free hand he turned the young one’s head to look at him.

“I don’t want to hurt you, _pen neth_.” He saw the youth’s fear and Maglor leaned in to kiss him. “You have to relax for me so much,” he said in a deep voice, when he drew back. “Don’t think about what I’m doing, just accept it. It will be all right, I promise.” Maglor looked into his eyes, and he saw something then that made him gasp. He knew! Well, perhaps not the extent of Maglor’s lies, but he knew Maglor _had_ lied, and he knew that he was in some kind of danger. The youth shook his head, and Maglor stopped just before he would have breached him.

“Wait!” He reached up and ran the back of one finger over the line of Maglor’s cheekbone and jaw. “My name –” Maglor caught the hand and shook his head once, firmly.

“No names. Just let me feel you, know you.” With that he finally pushed inside, not stopping at first because then it would only be more painful. Only when he was completely there did he stop and allow the youth to get used to the invasion.

“Are you all right?” he asked in concern. The youth’s eyes were closed, and his pain was obvious. Maglor hadn’t wanted to hurt him. But then he opened his eyes and smiled a little.

“Yes. I’m all right.” Tears stood out clearly in his eyes, but he still smiled, giving Maglor what he needed to go on. And he did carry on. He gave the youth a couple of light thrusts before he angled the third in such a way as he knew would give pleasure. The youth moaned sweetly beneath him, and Maglor nearly laughed to see his eyelids flutter closed like that – he knew how that felt. He did it again, and again, and again – until the young one almost seemed to melt beneath him. He was still tight, but now he had relaxed fully, and he even wrapped his legs around Maglor’s waist.

It was all the urging he needed to lose himself, and he did. The body beneath him was so warm and inviting, and Maglor found himself forgetting everything else. It was as though a spell had been cast on him, and he couldn’t stop – wouldn’t. When the youth came, Maglor only paused and then carried on, and a few minutes later he found his own release too at a single word from Sauron. Maglor cried out and lost himself completely, almost fainting at the violence of the feeling that swept through him. He had been denied so long that it almost wasn’t pleasant. But then it must have been, because when he came back some moments later he heard himself murmuring a ‘thank you’. He wondered who he was more grateful to.

But almost as soon as it was over, he wished it wasn’t. Because now the shadow that had been on the edge of his vision moved. Sauron walked towards them and still Maglor didn’t look up, trying to pretend to himself that they were somewhere else, wishing that they really were safe, that he had been telling the truth from the beginning. Not for his sake, but for the sake of the youth who had given him such pleasure unselfishly and generously. He would give anything to make his lies into truths.

“Good, _mûl nín_. Now leave him to me.” The youth looked around at the sound of that dreadful voice, and Maglor lowered his head for a moment before gently pulling out of the youth and rising to his feet. He didn’t watch the young one’s reaction, he simply walked to stand before Sauron and then sank to his knees praying that he had something, that he could stop this somehow.

“Please, _Herdir_ , don’t do this. Spare him – he is innocent.” Maglor buried his face in Sauron’s robes, rubbing his cheek against his thighs. In his desperation he kissed Sauron through the robes, feeling the heat of his breath passing through the material. It was a promise he was making – but did he have promises to give? Sauron took whatever he liked from him. But let him have some influence, just enough if not to save the youth, then at least to spare him this horror.

“Get up!” Sauron hissed. Maglor looked up into those dark eyes and blanched at what he saw there. He rose to his feet without another word and then dropped his gaze.

“Forgive me, _Herdir_ , I am sorry.” Sauron lifted his chin and looked at him.

“You will wait there.” Sauron pointed to a corner of the room. “You will watch, and you will be silent. You will not move, whatever you see.” Now a faint look of astonishment flitted over his features. “You will not beg for his life or appeal to my mercy,” he added. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, _Hîr nín_ ,” Maglor said quietly, feeling his heart fall at Sauron’s displeasure. When the dark lord released him he turned around and he faced the youth. He had stood and Maglor saw that he knew exactly whom he faced. From behind him Sauron moved Maglor’s hair aside and kissed his neck. The youth watched – _watched Sauron playing with his hair_ – then he looked into Maglor’s eyes with such burning anger and hatred; his thoughts so potent that Maglor could almost hear them.

_What are you? Why are you on his side? You know what you’ve done! I don’t want to die! This is not your place, this is not your death, this is not yours. I hate you for this!_

“Go,” Sauron whispered to him, and Maglor left them both to stand where Sauron directed him. And even though the last thing he wanted to do was watch, he couldn’t disobey, and he saw the unfolding scene as if in nightmare.

Sauron simply stood still as the youth backed slowly away from him, and then the youth began to speak, loud and clearly into the silence. “My name is Hallas. I am from Gondor. I am human. I am twenty years old…” He began to repeat himself, his eyes fixed on Sauron, but Maglor knew the words were meant for him. What had he done?

Nothing happened for another moment and then it began. Maglor had seen Sauron change before, and at first he thought he was watching the same thing happen. But it wasn’t quite the same.

Those burning eyes Maglor had seen before. Yellow. Feral. And this time it didn’t stop with the eyes. Sauron seemed to grow in size, but then he suddenly dropped forward onto his hands as if he was hurt. Maglor almost stepped forward then instinctively, to help if he could, but just in time he remembered Sauron’s order not to move.

His clothing split open and fell from him; the sound of the tearing fabric was somehow terrifying, too loud in the empty room. The skin of his back was only visible for an instant before it turned black and a sudden growth of coarse hair covered him. The youth still shouted, but now he was hysterical, and he repeated the words as if they were a mantra that could save him. But nothing would save him. Maglor fought to stay quiet as he watched. But it was nearly impossible. He knew what this was.

Wolf. He knew; it seemed he had known for centuries, but he had never seen it. He had heard the word on more than one occasion. Where from he didn’t know – it was a rumour without origin, without blame. But it had impressed itself on his mind over the years. He knew he hadn’t heard it from Sauron, and yet he couldn’t recall a time that he didn’t know about this secretly. Most of the time the knowledge was hidden even from him.

The werewolf was fully formed now, and it advanced on the youth in front of Maglor’s eyes. He couldn’t shake the impression that it looked more like a giant, black spider than a wolf, but then it wasn’t facing him. He looked into the eyes of the youth, who had suddenly decided to look at him. The wolf had reached him now, and was sniffing around him horribly. Maglor nearly cried out when the wolf growled, low and menacing. Because he knew now why Sauron had insisted on the seduction. The wolf could smell it. It could smell _him_ on the youth. On his skin, in his hair, _inside him_. He must smell so strongly of Maglor that the wolf would not even look to him. And it didn’t… then.

The attack was so sudden and ferocious that Maglor cried out, but it was lost anyway in the screams that burst from the youth. He was brought to the ground and Maglor was thankful then that he couldn’t see. All he could see were the wolf’s savage, suggestive movements as it tore into the flesh of its victim – the youth that it mistook to be him. It took far too long for the screaming to stop, far too long. And Maglor was crying helplessly when it was finally done, and death had come and gone. He was so lost in his guilt and pity that he didn’t immediately register it when the wolf turned and faced him.

When he did see the darkness in his vision coming towards him he blinked away the tears and watched helplessly, his eyes wide open as the wolf approached him. He was terrified, yet at the same time he felt incredibly calm. Maglor did not fear death. In fact, at the thought that he might soon face the same fate of the youth he actually felt relief. Freedom would finally be his.

Yet the wolf didn’t attack him. It sniffed around him, smearing the red blood of the youth onto his pale skin, and pushed him back, until he felt the wall behind him, and even then it didn’t give up. He realised what it was after and he slid down the wall so that he was sat with his back to the stone, his arms up by the side of his head in surrender. And then the strangest thing happened. The wolf lay down by the side of him! It rested its head on his lap and closed its eyes. Maglor hardly dared to breathe. But then the bizarre desire to touch it came into his mind. Slowly he put one of his hands down until he touched its black fur. It was so much softer that he thought! The wolf growled then and Maglor almost lifted his hand away, but he couldn’t. The compulsion was still there, and he obeyed it.

The wolf quietened and Maglor was trapped beneath it. He stroked the fur of its neck for a while, and then his hand fell still. He felt dirty, Hallas’ blood all over him where the wolf had sniffed at him. He looked over at the body and quickly looked away again. There was nothing he needed to see there. He waited, he didn’t know how long, but it was long enough for him to rest his head against the wall and close his eyes. So he didn’t see the change, he only felt it. And when he opened his eyes again he found himself with his hand in Sauron’s hair. The dark lord was naked, and his head rested in Maglor’s lap. His body was stretched out on the floor beside them. Was he asleep? He looked strangely vulnerable like this; in all the time Maglor had been his, he had never seen this side of Sauron and it shocked him.

He lifted his hand away from Sauron’s black hair, and quick as a snake strike, the dark lord reached out and grabbed hold of his wrist. Now he turned his head and looked up at Maglor. The same cold smile Maglor knew so well, and straight away he knew what Sauron intended.

“No,” he breathed. It wasn’t a refusal, just hopeless denial, and Sauron didn’t bother to correct it. He kissed Maglor’s hand though, and when his lips moved to the inside of his wrist, Maglor turned away and closed his eyes desperately. He felt a change again, and despite knowing how it looked he couldn’t help but moan when the dark lord drank of his blood. It didn’t last long, but it was long enough for Maglor to surrender. So that when the bite was over he sighed regretfully, only wanting the feeling to stay.

“Beautiful,” Sauron said, and Maglor finally let the tears fall. He couldn’t help weeping for what he’d done, the part he’d played. What he had seen. And it was time to ask again. Sauron sat up beside him to brush his tears away and kiss him as if he would steal away his conscience.

“Please,” Maglor began when the kiss was over. Sauron only looked at him. “Kill me,” he whispered, asking for what he knew was possible now. He did want to die, but he knew that more than anything he wanted Sauron to do it. He realised that he was envious of the youth. Sickened by his own thoughts, he shut down that part of his mind before he could analyse the feeling. But Sauron wanted it, why wouldn’t he give it to him?

“You are mine, _mûl vain nín_.” Sauron shook his head, and held Maglor’s face in his hands possessively. “Some things last forever.”

Maglor moaned, and then Sauron laughed and stood up, pulling Maglor to his feet. “Come with me. You may choose your own punishment. I know what it means to you.”

 

**Author’s Note:** Sauron’s name for his child is made up of two words in Valarin; _Ezel_ (green), and Pathân (leaf)

Translations:

_Herdir_ – Master  
 _Hîr nín_ – my Lord  
 _mul (vain) nín_ – my (beautiful) slave  
 _Ezelpathân_ – Greenleaf (Valarin)  



	17. Chapter Seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Seventeen

When Maglor awoke, he found he was being taken care of. Legolas was washing the wounds that didn’t hurt so much anymore. How long had he been unconscious? He looked around, and then everything came back. He got up from the bed suddenly, upsetting the bowl of warm water that the younger elf was using to soak strips of material. He noted that the material was pink, and he realised that Legolas was using them to soothe Maglor’s cuts. Before Legolas could say a word to him Maglor shook his head warningly. “Don’t! Don’t talk to me! I’m so sorry!” He almost cried then, but he had cried so many times – it never helped.

“What is it? You’ve been asleep for so long I didn’t know if you were going to wake up. Your wounds have almost healed.” The concern in his eyes was too much for Maglor and he went to sit with his back against the wall on the other side of the room, wincing when the rough stone grazed the sore and broken skin. “Maglor…?”

Resting his head in his hands, Maglor closed his eyes. “Leave me alone. Can’t you see that I don’t want to talk to you?” He sat in silence, and he was distantly aware of Legolas stopping Mithedhel from going to him. Maglor raised his knees against his chest and folded his arms over them. He huddled into the hard stone of the wall as if he was seeking comfort there. He couldn’t stop himself remembering, and he felt everything all over again. What had he done?

* * *

Oh, he remembered the youth, and the part he had played in his death. And in a way it had been his own murder he witnessed, whatever Hallas’ last words had been. Something about the way he couldn’t stop thinking about that bothered him. It was like a memory that you treasure no matter how awful it is. The idea that Sauron _wanted_ to kill him… he tried to stop thinking about it, focused on Hallas instead, and how he had seduced him at Sauron’s command. But he also remembered what had come afterwards. His ‘punishment.’

He had wanted one of the orcs or uruk-hai to administer it, and he had in fact begged for that, but Sauron insisted, and it bothered him. Why should it bother him? It would hurt just as much, be perhaps a little worse this way. Sauron could be cruel in a way nobody else could. But still, Maglor wished it wasn’t him. He had chosen this purely for the physical pain.

The orcs secured him into position for the punishment. They led him to kneel on the floor and then secured his arms out to either side of him with taut chains. Now he waited for the first blow to fall, but it seemed that he would have to wait a little while yet. Sauron was no doubt ready. The dark lord stood behind him – he could hear the swish of the whip as Sauron swung it experimentally through the air. Still, the wicked crack made him jump, and that made the chains clang and jingle. He felt a slight thrill of fear at being so helpless, and he wanted Sauron to erase that too.

When he had to choose, he had chosen the only thing he could. Something that resembled more of a punishment than any of Sauron’s sadistic games. Something that might have been prescribed by a court for wrongdoing. He knew it would hurt. He wanted it to hurt. But he wondered even now if it would be enough to erase the image of Hallas from his mind.

“Before we begin, I would like to hear you tell me what you are being punished for.” Maglor had almost expected this, and yet for a moment he couldn’t answer. He hadn’t stopped crying, and now his tears ran unchecked down his face. All he could envisage was the youth’s thankfulness and gratitude in the face of his lies. “There are two reasons for me to hurt you, name them to me now.”

“I begged for you to spare his life, _Hîr nín_.” Now Sauron came to kneel behind him, and he ran his experienced hands over Maglor soothingly, making him sigh in pleasure against his will. It was the last thing he wanted!

“No. I would never punish you for begging.” He paused and Maglor could almost see him smiling. “It suits you to be on your knees before me,” he said in amusement, and then he raised his voice again. “Choose your words more carefully.” Maglor thought about what he had done, and what exactly had been involved. He shivered as Sauron placed a gentle kiss on his shoulder; the touch sent a tingle down his spine. He wanted to say no, to beg for the pain to begin, but he didn’t dare, and then he knew the answer. Maglor cleared his throat.

“I supposed myself important enough to dissuade you from your desire, _Herdir_.” He waited, for Sauron to tell him if he was right, and the dark lord took his time before speaking.

“Yes, that is good enough.” He reached out to imitate Maglor’s position from behind him, and swept his fingers gently over the length of Maglor’s arms, back into his body and around his waist in a move that made him want to beg for the dark lord to take him. “And the other?” Sauron asked.

Trying to remember, and even trying to think was impossible when Sauron licked at his ear like that. Maglor moaned breathlessly, and then begged. “Please, I don’t know.” Sauron said nothing, and only continued his tormenting, nibbling a little now, so gently. Maglor couldn’t keep it in any longer. “ _Hîr nín_ , please hurt me!”

Sauron’s amused laughter tickled against his sensitive ear. “We will not begin until you have recognised your fault.” The torment continued. The dark lord’s hands left his waist and moved down over the front of his stomach, and then his legs, only to scrape his fingernails lightly over the sensitive skin on the inside of his thighs. Maglor felt his body swaying, moving back against Sauron invitingly. He couldn’t help it. And he knew that he would be asking for permission soon if this didn’t stop. Then he remembered.

“I swore at you!” How could he have forgotten that? He hoped, despite how much he longed for punishment, that Sauron would not inflict a torment like that on him for a while. It was strange, because while his body got better at obeying Sauron – it never actually felt any easier to Maglor, and sometimes he thought he would die of want when Sauron was in the mood to tease him.

“Yes, you did,” Sauron agreed quietly, but he finally stopped teasing, and pulled Maglor’s head back by his hair. The kiss was more what Maglor had come to expect, dominating and leaving him in no doubt about their roles here. Even when Sauron didn’t hurt him, there was something of brutality in his actions most of the time. The dark lord released him, moving his hair aside and over his shoulder so that it curled in front of him, exposing the expanse of his back. The dark lord stood and stepped back, and suddenly Maglor felt cold. He shivered unconsciously in response to the cool air as Sauron began to instruct him.

“Now. I want you to keep these things in your mind. These are the things I am punishing you for. You will ask for every strike, and you will decide when it is enough. It that clear?”

“Yes, _Herdir_ ,” Maglor said quietly. He took a few seconds longer. And then he wetted his lips with his tongue, remembering what he had done. Seeing yet again the boy in front of him. When he said the next word he spoke loud and clearly.

“Begin.” It sounded like he was giving an order. But before he had time to speculate on it the lash fell. He cried out despite wanting the pain, and the chains rattled as he jerked forward convulsively, trying to get away from the line of bright agony on his back; the sharp, stinging cut. He waited. It seemed to get worse before it got better, unbearable, and Maglor whined helplessly, but then he breathed in deeply as the intensity died down a little to be replaced by the warmth of his blood, and the dull ache of a bruise. He recognised the feel of the whip, and he knew what it looked like. Sauron had many different kinds, but he knew this one just as well as the others. It was a long, wicked looking leather whip. He could almost see Sauron wielding it behind him. Then, with tears in his eyes, he focused his gaze onto a patch of the stone wall in front of him.

“Again,” he said clearly, and again the pain came when he asked for it. It wasn’t easier this time, and he hissed and tried to move forward again. This time he spoke before the injury had a chance to become blunt. He asked for his punishment over and over, and he felt every single strike. Sauron handled the whip fluidly and with devastating precision. The whip was just like him – a cruel and dangerous lover. Sometimes the whip almost seemed to caress him, wrapping around him lovingly, but the sting it left behind made him cry. He knew that Sauron was holding back, that he wasn’t feeling the full potential of the whip’s destructive power. And he surmised, correctly, that it was because Sauron was ensuring he was aware enough to ask again.

Before too much time had passed, Maglor hung limply in his chains. But he wasn’t still. The touch of the whip made him respond even now, made him almost dance, and he obeyed it, helpless to do anything else. He cried, his agony so intense that he could no longer see or hear clearly. His world was only pain, and eventually he forgot to say the word. He stayed quiet, for longer than ever before, and as awareness of his predicament came back, so did the reason for it. Maglor thought he must have already spoken and was waiting for the blow to fall. But he hadn’t. Now Sauron reminded him.

“Enough?” He couldn’t ask for this to stop. So much pain, but it wasn’t enough, and in his mind Maglor knew it could never be enough. Nothing was going to take this away from him. Now that he had a brief respite, he could feel the damage the whip had done. His back felt colder than before. That was because it was wet, he realised suddenly – wet with his blood. But then he closed his eyes, and he saw an image that would never leave him. He spoke.

“Again.” Sauron obliged him. He asked again, and again, and it never became easy, but Maglor fell into a kind of horrible rhythm. It carried on, until he cried out the word every time he felt the whip against his skin. The pain didn’t lessen, but the blows seemed to melt into each other until it was all just a blur. He even forgot what the word was. Eventually, the whip connected with his back and instead of the reflexive shout of ‘again,’ Maglor cried out, almost howling. He sounded like an animal being hurt. All he wanted was freedom, so that he could curl up on the floor and let his injuries heal while he slept.

“Enough?” Sauron asked again, not giving him the time he needed to recover from the blows, demanding that he ask, or ask for it to stop. “Speak.” Maglor groaned and whimpered. In his mind he still saw the youth – it hadn’t worked. He knew that he could never suffer enough to pay for what he had done. He knew that he deserved more. But then he said something that he would both regret and find relief in.

“Enough,” he admitted, giving in, and then began to sob. Sauron gave him a few moments, and then he began to speak slowly, letting his amused words sink in to Maglor’s mind.

“I am gratified that you believe your insults to me were so deserving of punishment. Seventy-two strokes. What is fitting for you, clearly should also be fitting for Legolas when he is well enough.” Maglor gasped. “After all, his crimes are far worse than yours.”

_You should have known_ , his mind screamed at him. Mentally, Maglor relived every single blow, shuddering when he realised that in his desire to be rid of his guilt, he had brought such a cruel punishment upon the young prince. “Do you have something to say?” Sauron asked knowingly.

“No, _Herdir_ ,” Maglor sobbed brokenly. Now, for his selfishness, Legolas would pay for his crimes with the boy too.

“The next time I tell you what to think, and what to consider, you will do as I say, won’t you?” It was softly spoken, and Maglor answered instantly, realising that Sauron had known all along that he had disobeyed. Why hadn’t he listened?

“Yes, _Herdir_!” he cried out, in contrast to Sauron gentle tones. He was almost resentful, accusing, and he hoped with all of his soul that the dark lord couldn’t hear it. Maglor could almost see that cold smile.

“Good.”

Now he felt the dark lord kneel behind him again, he could feel that Sauron was naked, and he pulled Maglor’s hips towards him. He thought he knew what to expect, but then one of Sauron’s hands closed around his throat, squeezing. This act of gentle, quiet menace made him feel more vulnerable than any punishment he could have asked for; held like this, his arms still secured away from his defenceless body. And then Sauron took him. It was rough and violent, fast and brutal, a means to an end rather than an act in itself. The sensation of Sauron moving against him, rubbing against his tortured skin was an agony he hadn’t foreseen, and he cried out.

Sauron’s other hand stroked his member, quickly bringing him to hardness. Maglor moaned at that in protest, and as if to quiet him the hand around his throat tightened slightly and his air was cut off. He couldn’t breathe! Acceptance was something he had learnt, and he didn’t struggle for a few moments. But when the savage domination carried on, and the grip didn’t loosen around his throat, he couldn’t help but fight. But he was still completely helpless, and the chains jangled in the sudden silence as he tried to pull his arms in to get the hand away from his neck. Maglor knew he was in pain, but for the moment he couldn’t feel any of it, everything was background compared with the desperate need to breathe.

He struggled violently to free himself, to escape, and he heard Sauron laughing quietly into his ear. Felt those soft, sometimes generous lips curved into a cruel sneer, and for an instant Maglor wished he could see it. He wanted to see Sauron’s victory over him and his own death in those dark, laughing eyes. He began to feel light-headed, and stars danced in front of him. He started to weaken, and his struggles became vain, feeble attempts to move away. When Sauron breathed the order into his ear, blackness had begun to creep in, and he was no longer aware of what it meant, but his body knew. It was permission to give in, and he did. His fight to get air into his lungs ceased at exactly the same time as he would have chosen not to breathe anyway. Golden white light filled his world as he came helplessly into his Master’s hand, and Sauron climaxed too, the sudden warmth almost seemed made to soothe the fire of being taken so violently. When it was all over, the hand finally left his neck. He was released from his chains, and Maglor fell forward onto the floor.

Maglor lay on the cold stone floor. The world was distant, and silent. Everything was over – the cruel grip around his throat, the domination of his body, his orgasm, and the pain. He wondered, a little too calmly, why when Sauron’s hand was gone his body would not obey the command to breathe. He acknowledged to himself the way his gaze had fallen and fixed on a certain point. A quick flash of himself lying still and useless on the floor, his gaze glassy and vacant, came unbidden to his mind. Was this death? Did it matter? He waited, for what seemed like forever, and then he breathed.

The world moved again, but Maglor hardly noticed. In retrospect he would try to describe this feeling to himself. He would think that the first breath was like water in the desert, that he couldn’t get enough of the air, and that it was heaven – freedom! But for now all such romantic silliness was far away. Maglor was that first breath. It was noisy, whooping; and he sucked at the air forcibly rather than breathed it. His lungs expanded to bursting, and he looked at nothing.

Then, as if to teach him not to be greedy, his body suddenly rejected the breath, expelling it, and he found himself coughing out all the air he had taken in as if he was drowning. He twisted, and raised himself up on one hand, almost crawling forward, while he tried to regain equilibrium and a natural rhythm. His other hand strayed instinctively to his neck, and he was aware of fingering the bruises Sauron had left.

Walking around, Sauron came to stand before him, and as soon as he had recovered enough, and calmed down a little, Maglor kissed his feet. He felt faint, and yet at the same time exhilarated. There was more than one reason to be thankful to his Master, but Maglor had forgotten what it was. He was alive! That one consideration pushed everything else from his mind. He found himself being gently lifted up by his upper arms, and at Sauron’s encouragement he tried to take some of his weight on his feet.

“Now show me how grateful you are.” Maglor’s gaze dropped down through sheer force of habit, and he let his weight go as if he would fall to his knees, but Sauron maintained his grip and held him up. Maglor had seen many demonstrations of Sauron’s unnatural strength over the length of his captivity, and yet somehow the effortless way Sauron could hold his weight always made him feel helpless and in awe. Sauron laughed, low and quiet, and corrected him. “No, not that way. Not this time.”

Oh… Maglor licked his lips and tentatively reached out his hands to cup Sauron’s face. He leaned in closer, and just let his lips brush against the dark lord’s. He did it again, and this time he increased the pressure and opened his mouth a little, enough so that he could flick out with his tongue and lick lightly at his Master’s lips. Sauron gave way before him, and Maglor nervously let his tongue enter the dark lord’s mouth. Their kiss reminded him of how Sauron himself made Maglor feel. Encased in warmth, it could be safety, but he knew nothing was further from the truth. Because he wasn’t in control of this. He was only a servant, as always doing exactly what he had been commanded to do. And more than anything he hoped that he could please Sauron.

He continued the kiss for a little longer, exploring gently, and when Sauron sucked lightly on his tongue, Maglor moaned. He had taken his own weight again, and now the dark lord’s arms closed around him, pulling him closer, but the pain of feeling Sauron’s hands pressing against the ruined skin of his back made him cry out. He broke the kiss. And then with tears in his eyes he said what he needed to say.

“Thank you, _Hîr nín_ ,” he whispered. It was almost a croak, and he felt pain in his throat for speaking. Again he put a hand to his neck, and he looked up into Sauron’s eyes at the same time. None of it mattered; he still felt that he owed a great debt to Sauron for something. The dark lord smiled cruelly.

“Are you forgetting something?” Was he? Maglor strove to think what he might have done wrong, what Sauron might still expect of him, and he came up with nothing. But then he did remember something. Maglor moaned as his memories returned, but still he couldn’t let go of the gladness in his own survival. There was no resentment towards Sauron now. He took the responsibility entirely upon himself, and it was too much. He looked up at Sauron one last time, and then he fell... He knew nothing more.

* * *

Now he rested his head in his hands, and he tried to ignore what he had to tell Legolas. But he would have to tell him – and soon. Because if he didn’t – Sauron would. He was stopped from his brooding though when a tiny form clambered into his lap, forcing him to let his knees fall flat and making him raise his head to look. Mithedhel. He looked into that little face, and Mithedhel spoke.

“Mag-lor!” he said happily, his green eyes sparkling in pure joy and pride at getting it right. Taken aback, Maglor looked to Legolas. The Prince smiled.

“He began while you were away. I thought –” Legolas stopped, and reconsidered. “I was going to tell you.” Now Legolas actually blushed and smiled again. “It’s his first word. I think he missed you.” Maglor looked down at Mithedhel again, this time in wonder. But then the uruk threw his little arms around Maglor’s neck in a gesture that had become familiar to them both.

“Ahh,” he crooned soothingly, and Maglor couldn’t help but laugh at that. At the same time he sobbed, and it was an incongruous sound. Mithedhel clung to him, and rested his head against Maglor’s chest. “Maglor,” he said again, this time softly. Maglor held Mithedhel close to him, feeling calmer for it, and kissed the top of his head. Then he rose to his feet and carried him back to Legolas. He sat down and looked at Mithedhel for a moment longer.

“Shh,” he told the little uruk hai, raising a finger to his lips. Then he looked at Legolas. It was time.

“I have to tell you something,” he began…

Over the next hour or so he told Legolas about Hallas, and the wolf, and the punishment. And he stopped Legolas when he would have offered comfort. He didn’t know the worst. He would. Taking a deep breath, Maglor went on to explain what Sauron had said when the punishment was over, and at that Legolas stopped reaching out for him.

“I’m sorry.” Maglor shook his head and looked down at Mithedhel again. The little uruk smiled at him sunnily, and raised a finger to his lips, shushing Maglor in an almost perfect imitation of himself earlier. Maglor smiled despite himself. Mithedhel seemed to know to stay quiet though, and he looked up at Maglor curiously.

“I can’t give you what you want,” Legolas began.

Maglor hadn’t expected anything good to come from his confession, and certainly not forgiveness. In fact, if the truth be told he had expected Legolas to blame him, or to accuse him. He felt a little cheated by the quietness. “I know. It’s all right,” he murmured, and that seemed to get him what he wanted, because now Legolas raised his voice.

“No, it’s not! It’s not all right! I know what he did to you – I’ve had plenty of time to look at it!” They looked at each other, and again Maglor wondered how long he had been unconscious, how long Legolas had been caring for him. He watched those blue eyes fill with tears, and he wished he hadn’t said anything. Wished he had left it for Sauron to disclose, but that would have been too cruel. “Maglor, I’m scared.” Now Legolas’ voice was quiet again.

He wanted to reach out and comfort Legolas so much, but he didn’t. This was all his doing. “I’m so sorry,” Maglor let his head hang down. He couldn’t stop what was happening. None of it. He felt so useless. “But you will –”

“Survive.” Legolas finished the sentence abruptly, and nodded. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” He wiped the tears from his eyes, and there were no new ones. “I don’t want to be you,” he confided quietly.

There was a sudden ache in his heart. A dull, hollow ache. “What do you mean?” he asked helplessly, as if he could deny it, even though he knew, deep inside, exactly what Legolas was referring to.

“You must know. You see it, don’t you, what he’s done to you?” Maglor shrugged indifferently, and moved away from Legolas to sit further up the bed, taking Mithedhel with him, resting against the pillows. “What he’s made you into,” Legolas persisted, and Maglor looked away, deliberately ignorant. He didn’t want to have this conversation. He could feel Legolas staring at him, and he refused to acknowledge it. He didn’t have to face this. It was none of Legolas’ business. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” Legolas said at last, softly.

But he was right, and Maglor knew it. He knew he had changed, and he knew there was very little of himself left. Even his brothers would barely recognise him now. What had happened to the singer, the teller of stories, and the carefree spirit he used to own? He didn’t know if he had driven it away himself, or if it had been taken from him by Sauron. But it didn’t matter – it was gone. What was done was done, and there was no way to change it, no going back. No one knew that better than he did. “It’s all right. I deserve it,” he admitted quietly. “It’s true.”

He nearly turned away despite his words when Legolas sat beside him, but then he didn’t. He allowed the closeness, and he put an arm around the young Prince. Even though there was no safety in his embrace, it seemed to calm Legolas, and he rested his head on Maglor’s shoulder, closing his eyes. Mithedhel lay on the other side of him, snuggling into his other arm, and that was when his gaze fell on ‘Athân. The baby was watching Legolas steadily from where he had been left sleeping at the foot of the bed, almost staring, and something in the look wasn’t quite right. He didn’t seem like a child or a baby for a moment. He looked away from Legolas and at Maglor, and then Maglor could have sworn he saw a burning hatred and jealousy in those blue eyes before they became unfocused in a perfect imitation of reverie and innocent sleep. He gasped.

“What is it?” Legolas asked sleepily. Maglor wasn’t sure. It must have been his imagination.

“Nothing,” he said nervelessly, staring at ‘Athân, his heart hammering at what he had just seen. Imagination. He was overwrought, and his mind was playing tricks. It had happened to him before, many times. “Rest, _pen neth_.” He kissed Legolas’ hair, and the prince fell into a troubled sleep. Maglor watched them all, and he stayed awake with this strange family all around him. It was a family that belonged to Sauron, just as he did, and Maglor wondered if any of them were really his. They felt like they were, but he began to wonder about ‘Athân in his heart. Had he been imagining it?   



	18. Chapter Eighteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Eighteen

Running through the stone corridors of his home, he felt exhilarated and free. He slowed down a little, as a pang of guilt assaulted him for where he was about to go. He had promised. Mithedhel wrinkled his brow petulantly in indecision for a moment, and although he didn’t know it, he looked more like his uruk hai parent then than at any other time. He _had_ promised.

Every time Mithedhel ran away he was sure that it would be the last time. His father was always angry with him, and scolded him harshly. But Maglor was always so hurt and upset when he found him out. Mithedhel really meant the promise Maglor made him give. The promise that he wouldn’t run away. Every time he meant it. At those times he didn’t know why he had run. But then despite wanting to be good, and despite wanting Maglor to teach him and to sing to him some more, he felt the terrible need to run again. He couldn’t help it. Surely Maglor would understand and forgive him?

* * *

He opened his eyes expecting to see Sauron, but he was disappointed. He was left alone more and more often lately, and in some ways he resented it. Not that he _wanted_ Sauron to take him here. Not now. He didn’t. It felt uncomfortable now that he wasn’t alone, even if Legolas and the children _were_ enchanted – unable to wake up and observe him. But still, Maglor missed his Master in a way that no one would ever understand. He felt somehow incomplete without Sauron, without being in his company and giving in to his cruelty.

But he had awoken alone, and he had almost fallen back into reverie before he realised there was something wrong. Or, more correctly, someone missing. Mithedhel had gone again. Maglor stifled a sigh and left Legolas and ‘Athân together in the bed. He would have to find the young one again. There would be no rest until he had Mithedhel back with him. It was dangerous to be wandering in this place. There were worse things that ghosts and uruk hai in the darker shadows. Worse things even than vampires and wolves. Sauron had servants that were more terrible that an army of restless spirits or a company of war-hungry orcs.

Kissing Legolas’ brow, he silently slipped out of the room, hoping to be back before Sauron discovered that Maglor was not in his place, waiting and wanting to please him. He wondered what his punishment might be for going missing unexpectedly, and his mind skittered away from the thought. He couldn’t afford to think about it, or his fear would keep him from what he had to do.

* * *

Mithedhel resumed running wholeheartedly. He was stopped soon though, as he rounded a corner and collided with one of the uruk hai. Golrakh growled at him and picked him up, shaking him a little. Mithedhel wriggled fearlessly in his grasp, and with a growl of his own, sank his small, sharp teeth into Golrakh’s arm.

Useless. Golrakh didn’t budge, he just held Mithedhel up and away from him. Mithedhel frowned again, and began flailing his arms, trying to hit Golrakh’s face. His arms were just too short, and he suddenly grinned and stopped moving. Golrakh eyed him suspiciously and then brought him closer to sniff or to bite. At that point Mithedhel hit the uruk hai clear in the eye and Golrakh dropped him with a pained grunt. It was a long way to fall and he wasn’t fully-grown yet, but Mithedhel was gifted with elven balance and he landed on his feet easily.

* * *

Maglor roamed the familiar corridors like one of Sauron’s ghosts. He knew where he was; he had learnt much about the layout of the fortress over the centuries, at least this part of it. He wasn’t comfortable though. He sneaked around corners, hoping that he wouldn’t be observed by anyone, or any _thing_. They all reported to one person, and he would be furious. His clandestine ventures to bring Mithedhel back hadn’t been discovered yet, and for that he was thankful, but he knew that every time he was pushing his luck, and even though the fortress wasn’t really cold – it never was, the volcano acted as a constant source of heat – Maglor shivered.

The differences between ‘Athân and Mithedhel were becoming more and more clear as time passed. Although the young elf child had caught up with Mithedhel in the last year physically, it had become obvious that they were completely different characters. They had both quickly learned to walk, and to talk in short sentences. And they were both curious, but only Mithedhel ran away from safety to explore. For ‘Athân it was something different.

As soon as the young elf was able to understand, Sauron had taken him away without bothering to explain his reasons. The first day it happened, Maglor had feared for Legolas. He couldn’t be calmed, and Maglor had waited nervously for his panic and restlessness to be replaced by quiet uncaring. But then ‘Athân was returned to him several hours later, before that came to pass, and Maglor had been so very relieved. It was selfish really. Probably the best fate Legolas could have was to fade. It would be an escape, but Maglor still didn’t want to be alone, and he couldn’t help being glad that the Prince would stay.

Strangely though, Maglor couldn’t seem to get on with ‘Athân. He seemed entirely devoted to his father, and clung to Legolas almost unhealthily, but then Legolas seemed to want the closeness too so Maglor didn’t interfere. He wasn’t interested in learning songs or anything Maglor could teach him, and it soon became clear that when Sauron took him away it was to be given his own private lessons.

One day he had returned and greeted Maglor in Quenya, and he had been so surprised to hear the old language spoken he hadn’t even replied. But then when he recovered he knew it wasn’t something he wanted to be reminded of anyway, and he didn’t pursue the conversation. To speak Quenya would be to remember his earlier life, and that was something he tried hard to avoid.

Lost in his thoughts, Maglor walked the empty halls, knowing the first place he would look, and hoping that Mithedhel would be there. He didn’t notice the shadow that followed him, and maybe that was a mercy.

* * *

Immediately he was running again, too quickly for Golrakh to catch him, and the exhilaration returned when he heard Golrakh thundering down the passage behind him. He shrieked in a mixture of fear and joy and opened a side door, shouldering his way inside the room. Scaly hands grabbed at him, and Mithedhel really began to fight then.

He bit and kicked and punched, even scratched those who tried to hold him. He tasted uruk hai blood in his mouth, and he was hurt in turn. Their claws tore his skin, and their teeth drew his blood. Mithedhel hardly felt it. He growled and snarled and hissed, and although he was no match for them, they let him fight. Eventually though he found himself held down to the floor by Golrakh, who had followed him, and when all of his violence was over, he sighed in satisfaction, thoroughly and blissfully exhausted at last. The uruk hai chuckled around him.

He grunted a word that he knew in the black speech. A word of greeting, and it was echoed all around the room. Mithedhel sighed again happily. He was back. It was at times like this that Mithedhel didn’t know why he allowed Maglor to take him away. He loved being here. It was home. But he knew that by the time Maglor arrived he would want to leave. He didn’t know why.

But for now he enjoyed himself, and his life with the uruk hai. He had to climb to sit at the wooden table, but that didn’t bother him. He was getting bigger every day. He remembered a time when Golrakh had needed to lift him so that he could sit on the wooden bench. They ate, and Mithedhel was so glad to be with them for a meal. Most of what they ate consisted of meaty bones that could be animal or human, or even elf sometimes. But it didn’t matter to him. It felt right to eat like this, to tear the half-cooked flesh from the bones with his teeth, letting the blood and juice dribble down his chin. And they drank too, a fiery liquid that made Mithedhel want to shout and fight again, and later sleep.

They all spoke the black speech, and Mithedhel knew some of the words, the ones that were important anyway. Usually he could get his point across with a series of grunts and blunt gestures, which he enjoyed immensely. While he was here he forgot all the things Maglor taught him. The pointless complexities of the elven language, the songs, and the numbers. Here everything was simple, and he enjoyed it with the simplicity of a child, letting the other side of his nature have its freedom. Maglor would never understand, and neither would ‘Athân. He loved his brother, but he wasn’t interested in fighting or drinking. He had tried to explain what happened when he needed to get away, and ‘Athân seemed to become bored with his explanation. Mithedhel shrugged off the memory, and turned his attention to what would come next. ‘Athân had his own life anyway that Mithedhel had no part in.

Their place was so much bigger than the room he had come from. There was a long stretch of it devoted entirely to sleeping. The uruk hai who were off duty rested on filthy blankets after they had exhausted themselves with fighting and sex. To Mithedhel that was entertainment, and he watched it all with wide eyes. They wouldn’t let him join in with this, but it was violent and brutal. Mithedhel wished he were big enough to be involved. It was so different to what he had seen his father and Maglor do when they thought he was asleep. When he was big enough he would enjoy it too – it looked almost as good as fighting.

When Golrakh lie down to rest for a while, Mithedhel went with him. Golrakh growled almost tenderly when Mithedhel tried to climb on top of him, and then Mithedhel quite suddenly fell asleep half draped over the uruk hai, the drink having taken its toll at last.

* * *

Taking a deep breath, Maglor strode into the room. It was some distance away from their chamber, and it had taken some time to get here. There would be a payment demanded for stepping foot in here, and he hoped that it would be worth something to have come, that he would find Mithedhel waiting for him. He looked around.

A few of the uruk hai had looked up when he entered, and now those who noticed him chuckled nastily, but they weren’t surprised to see him. That was a good sign. Maglor knew his position here in their domain, and yet he still felt superior to them. They were only beasts. He wished he didn’t understand why Mithedhel came here, but he did. There was something of the beast in him, something he occasionally needed to let out, and although Maglor would make him promise not to return, he knew it was hopeless.

Not bothering to hide his disgust at the smell and filth, Maglor let his gaze wander around the room, and spotted Mithedhel quite easily. He was asleep with the leader, the one who would for a price ensure the silence of his company. Sauron would not find out he had been here. They all played a dangerous game. And the cause of it all just slept, looking so innocent it hurt Maglor’s heart.

A small crowd gathered around him – as if he would try to escape! Some of them really were stupid, but not the leader. One of the lesser uruk’s was sent to awaken him, and received a fist in the face for his trouble. But then Golrakh realised the reason for the disturbance and he grinned at Maglor, almost laughing. Maglor just stared back, and waited.

Careful not to awaken Mithedhel, Golrakh lifted him gently away and put him down alone on the blanket they shared. Maglor was glad to see the proof that they probably wouldn’t hurt him. No, they wouldn’t. The danger was that they would allow him to leave, and Sauron’s other servants would not be so taken by him. Maglor’s greatest fear was that one day Mithedhel would go missing, and never come back. He couldn’t face such a thought, but it was there nevertheless, and it was almost a certainty.

Golrakh came to stand in front of him, and Maglor met his gaze. He knew enough of the black speech to converse with them, and he did so now.

“Golrakh,” he said with distaste.

“Back again, elf?” The other uruk hai laughed quietly around him, and Maglor didn’t drop his gaze.

“Here only for him,” Maglor replied calmly, wishing they didn’t have to go through this meaningless conversation every single time.

“You are a stupid elf!” Golrakh insisted, and then waited for the reply he had come to expect.

“Yes,” Maglor said quietly, at last feeling the need to look away.

“Always you come back,” the uruk hai captain remarked insinuatingly.

“Always,” Maglor said, not bothering to look up at all now. He just wanted this to be over with soon, and before Mithedhel awoke.

“You must like to taste me, elf.” And there it was. The conversation was over, and Maglor knew what was expected of him now. There wasn’t much that Golrakh could take from him without Sauron knowing about it, and not for the first time he was grateful for it.

Golrakh couldn’t hurt him, mark his skin, or take him. All those things would be too obvious. In fact, Golrakh couldn’t do anything to him at all. But there were things Maglor could do of his own free will that Sauron would not find out about. And this was one. He fell to his knees and closed his eyes for a single moment, before opening them and moving forward to take the uruk hai into his mouth.

Once more he was insanely grateful that Golrakh couldn’t do anything. He knew how dangerous this was. As he licked and sucked and swallowed around the hardened flesh, he knew that the uruk hai was barely in control. He imagined those claws in his hair, pulling him close again and again, fucking his mouth so that he choked, and Maglor moaned as he worked, the fear making him aroused against his will.

Every trick and technique he had learnt he put into practice now, so that it would be over sooner. Golrakh just watched him, a low rumbling in his throat evidence that Maglor was doing exactly the right things. Swirling his tongue around, and then taking Golrakh deep into his throat while he used his tongue to rub the underside of the large shaft. Before long he felt the familiar tension in Golrakh’s body, and he took as much breath as he could before it happened. For the only time during the entire act, the uruk hai took hold of Maglor’s hair and pulled him forward. Gently enough not to leave signs of what had happened, but firmly enough that there was no possibility of escape. Maglor didn’t fight, and Golrakh thrust into his mouth a few times before releasing his seed. Maglor swallowed it all, feeling sickened by it, but knowing that it was part of the price.

When it was over, the uruk hai all left him alone without another word, and Maglor stay kneeling on the floor for a few moments before he recovered enough from the disgust he felt to stand up again. Before him Mithedhel lay alone, still asleep. So innocent. Wordlessly, Maglor went to pick him up and take him back, not regretting for one moment what he had to do to ensure his safety. In his sleep he clung to Maglor and made him smile. As he looked up he caught Golrakh’s eye, and something passed between them. Something of understanding. The uruk hai actually smiled.

“You will be back again, elf,” he said, nodding. It was the first time the uruk hai captain had said anything to him afterwards and for a moment Maglor was speechless. Then he understood, and he knew it was the truth.

“Yes,” he admitted, and then walked away out of the room, leaving the uruk hai alone. When he was walking back, he thought for a moment that a shadow moved quickly across the path before him, fleeing from his sight. He stopped in fear, but nothing emerged from the darkness, and Maglor breathed again, blaming his imagination. He relaxed and then hurried back before he could be discovered.

After he had made Mithedhel promise to stay where it was safe – again – without the slightest hope that it would work, Maglor stayed awake. He sat in silence for what was left of the night, even though he knew that Mithedhel would not disappear again for a little while. He knew what he waited for, perhaps only so that he could reassure himself he hadn’t missed it, but the dark lord did not visit him.

The next day began in the same way as the rest. There was nothing unusual. The children had stopped feeding from Legolas by now, but they required regular meals, and the uruk hai brought in breakfast. There was the usual rebellious flinging around of food from Mithedhel, although that wasn’t as bad this time. He was always a little calmer after his visits to the uruk hai, as if he had got something out of his system.

‘Athân was silent, as usual, speaking in quiet, private murmurs to Legolas when the other elf brushed his hair. Golrakh came to collect ‘Athân, and there wasn’t even a glance between them, although Mithedhel ran to him and squealed happily when the uruk lifted him high into the air. There was nothing strange about any of it. Mithedhel of course stayed with them. So they went walking together when orcs could be spared to guard them. Not that there was anything to see here. No. There was never anything. Mordor was a cruel land, and it wasn’t pleasant to be out in. But the exercise was good for the body, and the soul – even if the scenery left something to be desired.

Their favourite game was something they were teaching Mithedhel, although he didn’t truly understand the nature of it. How could he? Maglor walked up behind Legolas and covered his eyes. When he drew his hands away Legolas was stood still with his eyes closed, smiling slightly, and Maglor began. He whispered a vision to the elf Prince – a vision of Valinor from long ago – something he remembered. He pulled Legolas down to his knees as he spoke, cushioning the hard ground with a blanket they had brought along, creating for him the illusion of a meadow. He described the scene down the merest blade of grass, the cool blue of the sky reflected in the nearby lake, the slight breeze that drifted in off the water. At this point he nodded to Mithedhel, and the little uruk blew lightly against Legolas’ face, making him giggle.

When Legolas opened his eyes, he reached out for Maglor without giving reality a chance to exist or intrude. Legolas kissed him quickly before the young blond warrior rolled them around so that Maglor was trapped beneath him. They paid no attention to the orcs. Over time they became merely scenery, and neither of them could be taken from the world they shared. For a moment something flashed between them, and they grinned at each other, each remembering their nights together.

“Close your eyes,” Legolas whispered with a smile, and Maglor obeyed with a glad heart. This was a pleasure he never experienced with Sauron. This was acceptance. It was easy to give to the Prince like this, so easy, and Maglor listened while Legolas whispered to him of the woods. Maglor had never seen the Greenwood, and it was almost as good as being there, these fantasies they wove for each other. These descriptions were more than just a memory or a recounting. They carried a love for what they missed in every word and every expression. They were praising what they could no longer see, still just as gladdened by those lands and woods than if they had never left.

Mithedhel curled up beside him, and Maglor held the little one, knowing he was just as enchanted by Legolas’ words as he was. _His_ lies were never this beautiful, never this magical, however much sorcery he used. When the words became too much, as they always did, Maglor opened his eyes and placed a finger over Legolas’ lips. Never carry on once the note of longing became too accented, too bitter. “Shh,” Maglor said. “That was perfect, just there.” Legolas smiled a little sadly and leaned down to take Maglor’s lips in a tender kiss. “I believe you,” he whispered then, and the young Prince just smiled at him again.

“Thank you. I believe you too,” he said with a little grin. But this was much more important than anything they might have said. To be heard and known and believed was to be real again. Maglor felt that he was a part of the world, even in his enslavement, and he had forgotten what that was like.

There was a frustrated sigh, and both of them looked at the little uruk then. “But it’s pretend!” he insisted, his brow wrinkled up in puzzlement. Legolas laughed and scooped him up. They dusted themselves off and resumed walking.

“Then it is time for you to learn about the world, _pen neth_ ,” said Maglor, with a quick glance at Legolas. He would need help with this one. Legolas took his hand and everything was fine. When they returned, Maglor began teaching Mithedhel what the outside world was like, and his wonder was joyful and yet sad to behold. Would he ever see these things? Would any of them see the outside world again?

Some time later, ‘Athân came back, and ran immediately to Legolas. It was usually the uruk, Golrakh, that brought him back so Maglor didn’t bother to look up, made a point of it. And it wasn’t until he became aware of a presence behind him that he realised Sauron had brought ‘Athân back this time. He and Mithedhel were kneeling on the floor, drawing pictures of flowers and trees with a small piece of chalky stone. A split second before he realised what was afoot, Sauron had picked Mithedhel up and out of Maglor’s reach. He made to stand.

“Stay where you are,” Sauron warned softly, pleasantly. He spoke in Quenya. With a sick feeling Maglor obeyed, but he turned around on his knees so that he could see what was happening. As he did so he caught ‘Athân’s eye, and the young elf stared back at him knowingly. What was this about? And then Sauron told him.

“If I was to come here one night to enjoy you, and found you missing…” Maglor couldn’t breathe. He watched Sauron with Mithedhel in his arms. Mithedhel was quiet, but unafraid. He hadn’t been this close to Sauron since his birth. The dark lord didn’t look down at Maglor, and only stared at the little uruk. Suddenly Sauron smiled. “Such beautiful eyes!” he exclaimed in Sindarin to no one in particular, as if he hadn’t just uttered a clear threat. He returned to Quenya.

“Or, let me put it another way. If I believed for one moment that ‘this’ was more important to you than me…” Slowly, Sauron’s hand moved, until he held Mithedhel’s neck in a light grip. The little uruk growled, and the dark lord laughed at the noise. “But that would be too foolish, wouldn’t it? Even for you.” He growled back at Mithedhel playfully, the golden-yellow light flaring in his eyes, and Mithedhel looked at Sauron now in awe, reaching out to touch his neck, to find out where the sound had come from.

“Yes, _Herdir_.” Maglor couldn’t keep still, seeing the danger, and he almost touched Sauron’s robes, almost held out his arms for Mithedhel to be returned to him. “Please,” he whispered, his fear making his voice silent when he most needed to be heard.

“Don’t reach out,” he warned, and Maglor’s hands dropped to his sides. “Don’t speak, don’t even breathe wrongly.” He paused, still with his hand around Mithedhel’s neck. “You can’t afford to care what happens here, Maglor.” He understood it, and he wished he didn’t. He had to look away! He had to ignore it! It was the hardest thing that Maglor had ever done, but he managed because it might be the only way to stop this from getting any worse. It seemed like far too long before Sauron spoke again, and the relief Maglor felt almost had him cry out. But that would have been a terrible mistake.

“Your love will kill him.” Again a pause, and Maglor looked at Legolas. All along this exchange had been in Quenya. Had Legolas understood the threat? Certainly he knew the danger. At some point Legolas had started towards them, and now he was frozen in place, unable to move. A spell of Sauron’s keeping him back from his child. “Do you understand?” Sauron asked at last, and it took all the will Maglor had not to look up, to make certain that Mithedhel was safe.

“Yes, _Herdir_ ,” he said through numbed lips, surprised that he could actually speak.

“Good!” the dark lord said brightly, and then walked over to place Mithedhel in Legolas’ arms, whereupon he released the Prince, and Legolas backed away as fast as he could. Sauron watched them for a moment, and then turned to look at Maglor. “Distance will ease temptation,” he said, and Maglor knew he had to keep the eye contact. “Do not anger me,” Sauron warned. From the corner of his eye Maglor could see Legolas and the young uruk, but he knew he couldn’t afford to look.

“No, I won’t, _Hîr nín_ ,” he said miserably, feeling his loneliness almost as a physical thing. He looked into Sauron’s eyes, and he knew that whatever little joys he might have with this family around him, he was still alone. They _weren’t_ his. Sauron was all he would be allowed to have. Maglor closed his eyes and let his head drop, certain that Sauron was walking away at last, leaving it like this. And he was sure it wasn’t enough, not anymore. For one instant, despite everything, he wished that Legolas had never come and that he was still alone.

He didn’t realise that Sauron hadn’t left the room until he felt hands on his face and familiar lips covering his. He gave in to the kiss, but he opened his eyes, and he saw that Sauron had come to kneel before him. He closed his eyes again and despite what had just happened he couldn’t help responding to it. Sauron was much more to him than a threatening presence. He had been everything to Maglor before Legolas had appeared, and it couldn’t easily be thrown aside. The length of time he hadn’t been alone was barely the blink of an eye, and after everything he had gone through with only Sauron as a witness, Maglor didn’t know if he wanted to let it go. He didn’t know if he could.

The one great constant in Maglor’s existence was Sauron. He was so much more to Maglor than Legolas could understand. Even if Legolas’ coming had heralded a period of clear sanity, there was no escaping this destructive love and desire. It burned in him still and it was impossible to ignore. He was nothing more than a puppet. Not only did Sauron know the right strings to pull; he also had a hand in making them. And in the face of his fear for Mithedhel, and the terrible danger he felt for the little uruk, Maglor turned to one thing. To the one constant in his existence. He turned to Sauron. And just as at every other time when Maglor had needed him the most, Sauron was there, waiting.

By the time Sauron left, Maglor had almost forgotten what he had come for. And then he looked around, and it all came back. There was nothing he wanted more than to go to Mithedhel and make sure he was all right. But he couldn’t, and Legolas looked on him with distrust now, anyway. Distance would ease temptation. It was right. And Maglor began to distance himself from them. But someone smiled. ‘Athân. He sat and he smiled at Maglor when Legolas couldn’t see him – and it chilled Maglor’s blood to see it. Now he knew how Sauron had found out.  



	19. Chapter Nineteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Nineteen

Over the next few weeks, Sauron’s threat was never far from Maglor’s mind. He didn’t see the dark lord again in all that time – but he did see ‘Athân – and Maglor began to pay attention to the child, watching for another instance where the mask of innocence would slip. It didn’t happen. But Maglor didn’t relax.

Shunning company from Legolas or Mithedhel, Maglor spent long periods of time alone, staring at nothing. The little uruk didn’t understand, of course, and more than once Legolas had to scold him for bothering Maglor with his endless questions. The young one was hurt by his sudden coldness, and sometimes there was nothing Maglor wanted to do more than take Mithedhel in his arms and comfort him. But he couldn’t.

It was a lonely time. Not only for him, but also for the Prince. They hadn’t been warned away from each other, but during the day they had no privacy without Mithedhel. Their nights became sad affairs, desperately seeking warmth and understanding from each other instead of the slow lovemaking they had known before.

At first Legolas had been adamant that he would go after Mithedhel himself when it came to that. He would go to the uruk hai and bring him back. But Maglor had become distraught at his words, convinced he would lose them both and be completely alone once more, until Legolas had relented and half-heartedly promised to stay. Although he was beginning to believe that ‘Athân was not what he seemed, Maglor didn’t mention his suspicions, and now he found that a help. Maglor used him on the Prince too, asking Legolas what it would mean to the young elf if he lost his brother and father at the same time. That, at last, seemed to have an effect on Legolas, and he sighed sadly, capitulating.

But sooner or later, it had to happen, and when it did Maglor was torn between following his heart, and obeying Sauron’s orders. As usual he awoke to find Mithedhel missing. The little uruk never went missing in the daytime; he and Legolas watched him too closely for that. At first, despite knowing it was impossible, Maglor had tried to stay awake, to keep an eye on the young one. After a week or two, he began falling asleep without meaning to, and he cursed himself now for falling asleep this time.

His instincts screamed at him to find Mithedhel and bring him back. He knew the little uruk would have gone to Golrakh, and for an instant he was sorry that he had convinced Legolas not to go after him. Maglor considered waking the Prince up, but then didn’t. Maglor hoped and prayed that Mithedhel had got there safely. But what would happen when he had enough of being there too and Maglor hadn’t arrived to take him back? Would he disappear? Would Golrakh allow Mithedhel to leave them without an escort?

Questions raised themselves over and over in his mind, and his fear for Mithedhel was such that he was oblivious to everything else. But through it all he didn’t move. He knew Sauron’s threat was real – and what would it mean if he saved Mithedhel from something that _might_ happen, only to lose him to something that would _definitely_ happen as a result of his disobedience? He looked to ‘Athân. He seemed to be asleep, but Maglor knew he couldn’t risk it, and with a weary, worried sigh, Maglor fell back onto the pillows. At least now he wouldn’t sleep, he thought bitterly.

Looking around now that he had made the decision, he realised he wasn’t alone. A large shadow stood just inside the door watching him, and Maglor was suddenly so glad that he hadn’t moved from the bed he almost cried out.

Sauron came closer, and at a word from him, a large candle in a sconce on the wall flared to life, throwing its light over his features. He was dressed, and he came to sit on the bed beside Maglor. Sauron didn’t say a word, but Maglor could see that the dark lord knew of his internal struggle. A faint smile was on his lips, and as always he looked as though he were amused at the thought of Maglor’s suffering, but he didn’t comment on it, and for all that Maglor found himself strangely disappointed. It wasn’t as if his Master would say anything to ease him. Rather the opposite, in fact. But still, he missed the acknowledgement. Instead, Sauron gave him an order.

“Turn over.” It was impossible for Maglor to judge what kind of mood Sauron was in from his voice. Not that it would make much difference to him, anyway. He complied immediately, without question and without resentment. This was his place. Maglor didn’t even think about it anymore.

He lay face down on the bed with his face buried in his hands, waiting for what was to come next. He was aware that Sauron moved slightly, then he felt the dark lord’s hand on the back of his head. Using the palm of his hand, he slowly moved his hand down, the firm pressure and warmth moving over Maglor’s shoulders and back, over his buttocks and the back of his legs, brushing away the covers from him at the same time. He knew it should be demeaning to be touched like this. After all, he was being petted. And Sauron surely did it purposefully. But he simply couldn’t help himself. Maglor sighed. When the hand returned to his hair he moved slightly into the touch, eager to feel it again, and he heard Sauron laugh quietly.

By the time Sauron had repeated the action another two or three times, Maglor was moaning for his Master’s attention. It felt so good! He couldn’t hate Sauron’s touch. And to be caressed like this didn’t feel sexual at all; it felt comforting and relaxing. When Sauron stopped Maglor almost whimpered, and he turned his head lazily as Sauron stood up. He rested his head on his arms and just watched while Sauron undressed. He didn’t move. Sauron hadn’t told him to move, and so he waited.

He looked away again when Sauron returned to the bed. This time the dark lord didn’t sit alongside him, but moved to cover the length of his body. Maglor parted his legs to give room and consciously relaxed, not expecting anything else by way of preparation, and he was right. The sudden penetration took his breath away though, as always, and as always there was still pain despite Maglor’s careful preparation with oil. He expected the feeling to fade, but it didn’t. Sauron took him in such a way that he felt the burning every time. He would pull out slowly, almost teasing, so that Maglor moaned into the pillows, then suddenly thrust in so that he cried out. Instinctively, Maglor moved forward slightly, away from the intrusion, and Sauron took hold of his shoulders firmly and pulled him back to his original place.

“Stay,” he commanded, just as he would an animal, and Maglor knew he would obey. He pushed back to meet his Master, trying not to let the strength of the thrusts push him forward on the bed. Maglor simultaneously loved and hated Sauron to take him this way. His larger form was somehow smothering like this, and it almost made Maglor feel a kind of claustrophobia. But at the same time, something about his weight was comforting. Sauron’s skin felt warm against his back, and somehow he felt less vulnerable, less exposed.

The dark lord reached forward so that he could grasp Maglor hands, and they stayed this way for a while. The rhythm settled down, and Maglor found it less uncomfortable. He wasn’t told to be quiet either, so he moaned without abandon, as always the simple act of being taken by his Master making him hard, and he felt his erection rubbing against the bedclothes in time with Sauron’s thrusts.

After a while, it didn’t seem to be enough for Sauron, and he pushed deep inside Maglor before putting an arm around his waist and pulling him up so that he was on his knees before Sauron. At least, he was nearly on his knees. The dark lord had pulled Maglor back against his chest at the same time so that he held Maglor’s weight with that one arm. He could almost take his own weight, but not quite. Maglor let his head fall back, closing his eyes, aware of his hair cascading over Sauron’s shoulder. He let his own hands drop and take hold of Sauron’s arm around his waist just as the dark lord began to take him again. With his weight like this, Maglor had no control whatsoever, and his cries were almost whimpers.

Sauron gently brushed Maglor’s hair aside with his free hand, then leaned in close, his breath hot and ragged over the sensitive skin of his neck. Sauron took hold of one of his slave’s hands and led it down so that he held his own hardness in his grip. What he wanted was obvious, and Maglor obeyed him in this too, beginning to move his hand without Sauron’s encouragement. He moaned desperately now, needing to let out what was happening to him in one way or another.

“Louder,” Sauron whispered in his ear quietly, and it was easy to comply. But then he realised that being told to make a noise was different to being allowed. It seemed that his cries only made it more difficult to hold back, and it wasn’t long before he was begging.

“P-Please… Aulendil…” He didn’t need to beg more than once. Sauron chuckled into his ear, still keeping up the fast pace for a moment longer, before he stopped and whispered.

“Anytime, _mûl vain nín_.” Maglor came a few seconds afterwards, somehow unable to help watching himself spill all over the bed before him. He felt strangely detached from his own orgasm, even though it was his own hand doing the work. When it was over Sauron let him down gently so that Maglor took his own weight again. Then he pushed Maglor forward and down, so that he ended up on his knees with his face pushed down into the pillows. After that Sauron began moving again, and now it was a fast, purposeful rhythm.

For the first time, Maglor truly felt he was being used. His Master was hard and merciless inside him, and Maglor’s early satisfaction only made him want to plead for Sauron to be careful. He tensed up automatically whenever Sauron brushed against the sensitive gland inside him, the stimulation feeling uncomfortable now. In response his Master hit that same spot over and over, moaning when Maglor’s body tensed up repeatedly around him. After some minutes spent using Maglor this way, Sauron came, and with that he pushed Maglor down to the bed completely so that they were in the same position they had started in.

Sauron said nothing, he just lay on Maglor, almost crushing the elf beneath him. Then he pulled out so suddenly that Maglor hissed and buried his face in the pillows again. He moved away, and Maglor was sure it was over until he felt the heat of Sauron’s palm on his hair again. Again the hand traversed the length of his body, while he shivered beneath it, realising that he was a pet of sorts to Sauron. Still, he couldn’t help but be soothed by it.

“Thank you, _Herdir_ ,” he said softly.

“Shh…” The dark lord managed to be comforting like this, and Maglor cried for his loss of self. He needed something to replace what was missing, and as always he received it. “Beautiful,” Sauron whispered, and the word made everything all right, stole away his tears. He was where he should be, and he had done well. He had pleased his Master. This was all he ever needed. The pain and discomfort were only objects on the way to this gentleness. This soft touch and quiet word that was almost kindness, and Maglor was more grateful for this than for his release.

“Tell me.” It wasn’t a question. It was a command, a demand to know what he was feeling, and where he was. Maglor answered honestly as always.

“I love.” He didn’t say ‘I love you’; it wasn’t that kind of love. This was dark, destructive, and unwholesome. There was nothing for free here, and love shouldn’t exist with him. But it did. It was different, but it was there, and it seemed to be enough for Sauron.

“Show me.” Although Maglor would always do what Sauron wanted, there were times when his orders made Maglor’s heart sing in the same way a kiss from a lover might have gladdened him before he came here. There were times when to do his will made his soul sigh in the same way that thankfulness for life and Arda gave him peace before. And this was one of those times. Without even thinking about it, Maglor grabbed at Sauron’s wrist. He turned over on the bed and looked into his Master’s eyes while he reverentially kissed his palm, and then the inside of his wrist.

“ _Meleth nín_ …” The words were sighed rather than spoken. Maglor sat up and wrapped his arms around the dark lord’s neck. Encouraged by Sauron’s silence, he buried his face in the dark lord’s hair for a moment, inhaling deeply.

“ _Hîr nín_ …” Another breath, and then with his eyes wide open, Maglor turned his head slightly and brushed their lips together. It was a brief kiss, all the more meaningful for it’s seeming innocence.

“ _Herdir nín_ ,” he said at the last against the dark lord’s lips, and then pulled back a little. During this display Sauron had been silent and just watched him, allowed him to do what he would. Now for the first time he saw how coldly Sauron’s eyes glittered in the small amount of light that came from the torch on the wall, and Maglor trembled.

“Tell me,” he demanded again.

“I fear,” Maglor replied in the manner of a confession, wanting to look away from that cold glare but unable to.

“Show me.” And then Sauron was kissing him deeply. Maglor surrendered gracefully, leaning back a little and finding himself supported by Sauron’s arm. He trembled at this reminder of Sauron’s unnatural strength, and whimpered into the kiss when he felt Sauron’s other hand caress his neck as a reminder of what he could do if he wished. Maglor didn’t forget that his Master had more than one identity. Sauron plundered Maglor’s mouth for a time, seeming to enjoy his slave’s trembling and submissive behaviour. When the dark lord ended the kiss, his hand moved down over the front of Maglor’s exposed body slowly, pausing to circle a nipple with his thumb, rubbing in the seed that his skin had picked up from the sheets, and watching for his slave’s reaction. The hand moved lower still. With the fear, Maglor had become aroused again, and he gasped when Sauron’s hand closed around his erection. He pulled at Maglor’s hardened member slightly, just teasing, and looked into his eyes.

“And now?” he asked.

“I obey,” Maglor answered with no hesitation. Sauron smiled then at last, and Maglor closed his eyes to shut out the sight as the hand around him began to stroke him more vigorously.

“That’s right,” Sauron said while he continued to pleasure his slave. But this wasn’t really pleasure. It was a test. And when Maglor thought he must lose all control, he found that for as long as he didn’t have the word, release was impossible and he moaned not in pleasure, but almost in pain. Finally, Sauron’s hand stopped moving, although it didn’t leave him.

“Now,” he commanded expectantly, and he wasn’t disappointed. Without any further encouragement, Maglor climaxed for the second time in his Master’s hand. When he was finished, Sauron lay Maglor back down on the bed, and wiped the seed from his hand in a diagonal line over his slave’s chest and belly.

“Thank you, _Herdir_.” He said what was expected of him, and Sauron smirked at the sight of him, before dressing and beginning to walk away. He turned at the door.

“Sleep.” It was more than a suggestion, and Maglor stared at his Master for the last few moments of consciousness, before he fell into a deep and restful sleep.

Despite the magical sleep, Maglor awoke long before Legolas and ‘Athân, and once he had cleaned himself and the bed, he waited for the day to begin, hoping that Mithedhel would be brought back to them when Golrakh came to collect ‘Athân.

When Legolas awoke, Maglor told him of Mithedhel’s disappearance, and it was only then that he realised his mistake. Sickened with his own worry, he hadn’t even thought about how Legolas would react. Oh, he had known Legolas would be worried and upset, as much as he was, but he had been blind to exactly what it would mean.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Legolas demanded, as he paced the small room they shared. He would occasionally walk to the door, obviously considering venturing out into the fortress despite the dangers. And Maglor didn’t know how to calm him. Especially since it seemed he had made a mistake by letting him sleep.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think. But you couldn’t do anything for him, Legolas.” Maglor felt frozen in place when the blond prince whirled on him and for the first time he realised that Legolas was elven royalty. There was something cold about his eyes now.

“And so you take it upon yourself to decide if I should or shouldn’t know straight away? You are mistaken, Maglor! It is my right to know.” He glared for a while longer, but then his conviction seemed to falter and his eyes filled with tears when he looked at the bed and saw only one child lying there. “He is my son,” Legolas whispered then, seemingly to himself, and fell to his knees beside the bed.

It seemed like the wrong thing to do, to watch the young one cry for his lost son, but Maglor knew his comfort would not be accepted. He had certainly made a mistake by not waking Legolas up at the first opportunity. Of course he would want to know, even if there was nothing he could do. Maglor blamed himself, but then he told himself that he hadn’t been thinking clearly. Mithedhel’s disappearance was not his fault. Thinking that, Maglor silently busied himself with other things, keeping calm, still hoping that the morning would bring the young uruk back to them. He couldn’t begin to consider any other possibility.

In comparison Legolas was short-tempered all morning. His worry and his fear were never far from his face, and it showed up in his treatment of ‘Athân. He cleaned and dressed the youngster in a shorter space of time than usual after breakfast, as if he was hurrying the day along. When it came to combing ‘Athân’s hair, Legolas actually hurt the young elf, and he protested, only to be told off by his father. It was only by chance that Maglor heard the whispered insult. He had decided not to get in Legolas’ way, but the sound of Quenya caught his attention, and he looked towards them.

“Stupid elf!” It must have been ‘Athân. Legolas didn’t know Quenya, and he saw that it was indeed the child. He was stood in front of Legolas, out of sight of his father’s eyes, and the look on his face was knowing, and chilling.

“What are _you_ looking at?” he asked Maglor, sneering. The comment had been directed at Legolas then. Probably for pulling his hair with the comb.

“How dare you speak of your father like that!” Maglor replied, giving in and speaking the old language at last. “Show more respect!” ‘Athân only smiled coldly – the inanimate smile of a doll – and Maglor suppressed a shiver as the room almost seemed to darken, throwing ‘Athân into stark contrast, as if he was the only real thing left.

“Oh, but I _do_ respect my father.” It was impossible to mistake his meaning, and suddenly ‘Athân didn’t seem like a child at all. At least, not in spirit. With his child’s voice his next words almost didn’t make sense to Maglor. And when he did catch the meaning, he wished he hadn’t. “Not nearly as much as you do, though.”

They stared at each other. The room darkened still further, and Maglor felt power slipping away from him. Power over a child. This was ridiculous! “Be quiet!” he insisted sternly, but ‘Athân wasn’t even nearly done.

The humourless grin was still there, as if ‘Athân was a puppet of sorts, but his next words put paid to that idea. ‘Athân asked the questions with a clear and sincere desire for knowledge. But these were not really a child’s questions. “Slave. What does it feel like? Do you really like it?” Maglor involuntarily took a step backwards. He shook his head, as if the action would make ‘Athân’s words go away. Surely the child was not conspiring with Sauron in this? But he was. “He lets me stay awake sometimes. You know… so that I can watch? He’s right about you, too. You’re very obedient.” Now Maglor did shiver. Something about all this was so very wrong, and disturbing. It was an insult to the form of the elf child who stood before him.

“What are you?” he breathed. The question being the only reply he could give. ‘Athân laughed – and his laugh was as innocent and childlike as ever.

“I’m an elf!” But something in his eyes still wasn’t right. Something in there seemed to know too much, was too old.

“You know what I mean!” Maglor almost shouted it, desperate to make all this stop. It had seemed up until now that the rest of the world had ceased to exist, and there were only ‘Athân and himself still here, and still talking. Now everything else came back with a rush and Maglor found himself bewildered by the light and the noise.

“What is it?” Legolas demanded impatiently. “What are you both talking about?” He looked to Maglor, and maybe he saw the fear, or maybe he just saw someone he still didn’t want to talk to. Maglor stared back at Legolas helplessly and shook his head.

“He…” Maglor gestured to the child. “He’s not what you think, Legolas!” he managed to gasp out. He continued to look at the Prince, but he was horribly conscious of the little mouth curving upwards in a cold, cruel smile. His gaze was drawn back down to ‘Athân and he couldn’t stop it. He didn’t want to see any more, but it seemed it wasn’t over yet.

“What am I?” ‘Athân whispered, still speaking Quenya. “I am a reminder. I am a watcher. Be careful, _mólinya_.” And Maglor could see Sauron’s dark presence staring out of those blue eyes as clearly as if he was in the room. The sheer insult of using the child this way made him uncharacteristically angry.

“Stop it!” he shouted. “I don’t believe this! It’s not real!” ‘Athân laughed silently, and then turned toward Legolas, burying his face in the other elf’s chest, still shaking with his laughter in an uncanny imitation of tears.

“What did you say to him?” Legolas asked in suspicion at ‘Athân seeming upset. He held his child close, and Maglor didn’t know how to say it.

“Me?” he said disbelievingly, certain that Legolas couldn’t have failed to feel the menace and sheer evil in the room, even if he didn’t understand the words. “You don’t understand, Legolas…” Something occurred to Maglor then, and it was a thought that made him shudder. When he spoke the words he had the feeling there was something else he was trying to say, something he would understand if he knew more, if he had a clearer view. “ _He is his father’s son_.”

Legolas stared at him and then sighed and shook his head. “Leave us alone.”

Leave him alone? With that? Maglor faced his fear and drew nearer, reaching past the hateful child to take hold of Legolas’ hand. “Please! Don’t be like this. Don’t push me away. Not now.” He should have put a stop to it before this. He should have heeded his intuition much earlier, and stopped the unnatural closeness between Legolas and ‘Athân, because Maglor suddenly saw that it could be nothing but bad for the young one. What would it do to him when he _did_ see what ‘Athân really was?

“I don’t want to talk to you.” Legolas said, and he looked hurt then. “It’s not me who has been doing the pushing away.” Maglor felt hurt too, remembering their days that had turned so silent and coldly real. Legolas continued. “I have wanted you, when I was lonely. But I was wrong.”

How could he say such a thing? Maglor had been keeping them all safe. It had been for their sake. “Please, Legolas,” he began in a low voice, almost unwilling to talk of such things in front of ‘Athân, although it was obvious now he understood too much. “You know why I have to –”

“Yes!” Legolas snapped, and then for a moment Maglor saw compassion in his eyes. But he also saw disbelief. Legolas thought he was losing his hold on reality. He watched as the Prince tightened his embrace around ‘Athân, rocking him slightly, and he had to hold back from tearing the child from Legolas’ arms to show him. Maglor had a strong feeling that such an action would only prove Legolas right. He couldn’t win here. He never won. It was a lesson he had learnt more than once, but it was bitter to see it applied to others; when there was more at stake than just himself. “Just leave us alone,” Legolas said quietly but firmly. “You’ve done enough.”

 

Translations:

_Herdir_ – Master  
 _Hîr nín_ – my Lord  
 _Mûl (vain) nín_ – my (beautiful) slave  
 _Meleth nín, Hîr nín, Herdir nín_ – my Love, my Lord, my Master  
 _mólinya_ – my slave (Quenya)  



	20. Chapter Twenty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Twenty

They stayed in uncomfortable silence. Maglor sat on the floor and rested his head against the wall, while Legolas busied himself with ‘Athân, and there was nothing he could do about it. He wondered how long it could last. Sooner or later the child would hurt Legolas – Maglor was certain of it. Would Legolas fade? He kept turning these thoughts over and over in his mind until the door was opened, and Golrakh stood waiting for ‘Athân. But then he stepped aside, and a small figure came rushing into the room and flung itself at Maglor. Stunned, he could do nothing but catch Mithedhel. He was safe! And he was back! Maglor thanked all the Valar he could remember, and all of Sauron’s warnings fled from his mind as he held the young uruk close to him.

“Maglor!” Mithedhel exclaimed and returned the embrace wholeheartedly. Then he looked around. “Hello, _Ada_!” he said as a seeming afterthought. Legolas was staring as if he couldn’t believe his eyes – and then he smiled in relief.

Mithedhel’s words came out in a rush as though he had been waiting to speak them for hours. “Where were you? Why didn’t you come? I was so bored!” He frowned at Maglor accusingly, as if he were responsible for the lack of entertainment. “I need to know some things,” then he quietened his voice, but not enough, “and Golrakh is stupid!” Maglor caught the surprised look of the uruk hai and couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

“What things?” he asked indulgently, as he checked that Mithedhel was all right. He wrinkled his nose a little when he realised that Mithedhel had been drinking again. He reeked of it!

The little uruk gave Maglor the most serious look he could muster. “Why do dreams lie to you?” Maglor only smiled mysteriously.

“Some would say they are telling you the truth.” Mithedhel raised his eyebrows in disbelief, and Maglor found himself giggling again.

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m not big yet,” he said regretfully, stretching out his arm as if to check the length of it. Then he looked at Maglor again.

“Why can’t I see colour in the dark?” He didn’t even pause for the answer. “Why have I got green eyes?”

“Ah, that is because your grandfather has green eyes.” At that Mithedhel actually nodded sagely, as if the knowledge Maglor had given him then was wisdom. Maglor shook his head. Mithedhel leaned in close to whisper to his teacher, and this time he was quiet. The misplaced politeness made Maglor smile again.

“Why does Golrakh smell?” he asked. Maglor looked up and met the uruk hai’s gaze with a barely perceptible nod of thanks. The uruk looked back at him for a moment and then smiled at Mithedhel with too many teeth.

“He drinks too much,” Maglor whispered back meaningfully. “Amongst other things.” Unfortunately, Mithedhel completely ignored the hint.

“Why didn’t you come to get me?” he asked then, looking genuinely puzzled, and Maglor sighed.

“I can’t follow you anymore, _pen neth_. I am forbidden.”

“Forbidden?” Mithedhel echoed.

“I’m not allowed,” Maglor explained, and then his gaze fell on ‘Athân. He and Golrakh had still not left, and quite suddenly he felt he was putting Mithedhel in danger by talking with him like this. He stood up with Mithedhel in his arms.

“So?” asked Mithedhel, plainly uncaring whether it was allowed or not.

“So…” Maglor said simply, carrying the young uruk over to his father. Legolas reached out his arms to take his son, and Mithedhel began to struggle.

“No!” he shouted. “I missed you, Maglor. I thought you would be happy to see me!” His brow wrinkled the way it always did when he was upset, and Maglor looked away, forced himself to look away.

“I am, _pen neth_ ,” he said. “I really am. But I can’t be…” Mithedhel began to cry. Cried for him, but he couldn’t do anything about this either, and Maglor began to wish he was anywhere else. That Sauron played with him, he could live with – and did. But that he played with the children was unbearable. Maglor couldn’t watch, and yet he couldn’t do anything else.

* * *

It had been too easy to escape Golrakh. The other uruk hai who were awake didn’t keep a close enough watch, and in all the confusion and noise, it was easy for him to leave. A few months had passed since the first time Maglor hadn’t come to get him from the uruk hai. At first he had tried to stay put – but it was so boring! Maglor wouldn’t even teach him anymore, and all his father was concerned about was ‘Athân. Not that he minded. His brother was not like him. And besides, there were times he just couldn’t stay. Times when he had to fight and play. And at those times there was one place he needed to be.

So he had begun to creep off at night again. ‘Athân asked him why he did it, but as much as Mithedhel tried to explain, his brother never really understood. When he realised that his brother would still run away, ‘Athân had sighed and explained to him about the kinds of dangers out in the fortress, and Mithedhel had listened carefully. He knew to ignore the whispers of the ghosts, to flee from any shadows that moved, and to keep out of Sauron’s sight should he see him. There were other things too, but none of them were near him now. ‘Athân had taught him to recognise them. He was alone here.

Sometimes all he wanted to do was explore, and that need had become greater just lately. The world was too small for him; he couldn’t be kept in! He wouldn’t! Golrakh was just as bad as his father was sometimes. He tried to keep him close until he took him back to their room in the morning. It annoyed Mithedhel no end, who thought that it was likely no one in this entire place understood him. He remembered Maglor telling him about trees. Perhaps if he got out of here he could see one. Would it be ugly? Maglor had said they were pretty, but also green. How could anything that big and green be pretty?

For now, just exploring was enough for him though, and in his mind he began to map out the parts of the vast fortress he had seen. Soon though, the corridor he was going down began to look boring. There were nondescript doors set into each side. All of them were locked. Except for one at the very end. That one was open, and Mithedhel heard voices when he strained his ears. Creeping silently closer – he listened. It was ‘Athân! But he was saying something wrong.

Mithedhel listened and crept, until he could see, and when he saw into the room, it was Sauron who decided to speak.

“No! Again!” The dark lord was shouting, and he saw that it scared his brother. Mithedhel wasn’t frightened, and yet ‘Athân had told him he should be scared of Sauron. “You _will_ remember these things, Ezelpathân! I have a long, long time to teach them to you.” ‘Athân was pale and trembling as he looked up at his father, and it confused Mithedhel who stood watching. “Should we run out of time, then I will make some for us. You will know these things if it takes millennia. Again. Answer the questions before you.”

Continuing to listen, Mithedhel wondered what it was Sauron was trying to teach his brother. None of it seemed to make sense, and then they spoke a language Mithedhel didn’t recognise, but he realised he knew what they were saying nevertheless. He had to get away from here! He had to find his way back! Mithedhel must have made a sound, because suddenly Sauron turned to glare at him. ‘Athân saw him too. There was alarm in his eyes, and he only said one word before Mithedhel headed back towards safety as fast as he could.

“Run!”

* * *

It had taken forever but at last it was in sight. Mithedhel had been running and running. Sauron only walked behind him, but somehow he didn’t seem to get any further away. When he entered the room, he headed for the one person that would keep him safe. He threw himself at Maglor.

“Mithedhel!” But then Maglor must have seen his distress. “What is it?”

He tried to say it, what he had seen, but he had no breath left, and soon it didn’t matter, because Sauron must be here already. He hadn’t been far behind. Mithedhel screamed and buried himself in Maglor arms. “Don’t let him get me!” he panted. And then he hid his face again.

* * *

They looked at each other, and it was clear that Maglor had just as much idea as he did about Mithedhel’s strange behaviour. What had happened? Don’t let him get me? Him? Legolas had a very bad feeling, and he saw that Maglor shared it.

“Shh,” Maglor said, kissing Mithedhel’s hair while the child shook and trembled in his arms. But there was no soothing him, and there was no wonder. Sauron had followed him here.

“Give him to me, Maglor.” Both of them looked around then, and he was there. Already he came forward, his hands outstretched, and Maglor backed away with Mithedhel in his arms, shaking his head.

“No.” Maglor said it quietly, but he could have shouted. Nothing would have stopped Sauron coming towards him, and the dark lord’s intentions were too clear to be mistaken. Maglor carried on speaking, magnificently undaunted. “I will not. You can not ask this of me.” He held Mithedhel closer to him, and continued moving back, in defiance rather than fear. He was more beautiful than Legolas had ever seen him before in this moment. For the first time Maglor stood tall and straight in the face of Sauron’s advance; his red hair shining like fire in the torchlight. He must know there was no hope, and still Maglor managed to look as if he could refuse – and win.

Orcs had followed, and now they grabbed hold of Legolas, who looked to Sauron, and was then frightened by what he could see in the dark lord’s eyes. Challenge. He screamed to be let go and fought against the orcs, but they just held him still and out of reach of his son. When Sauron spoke, everything stopped to listen, including Legolas.

“I can’t? But I do, Maglor,” he stated, sounding frighteningly persuasive. He had reached them, and he touched Mithedhel, who had been crying, but was quiet now. For Legolas it was a moment of foreboding, to hear that voice fall silent. He could hear Maglor’s breathing, see the fight in his eyes when he looked at Sauron. Mithedhel buried his face in Maglor’s neck as Sauron reached to place a gentle hand on either side of Maglor’s head. “Don’t make me force you to give him up,” he advised quietly, and Legolas saw Maglor’s eyes fill with tears even as he shook his head. He wouldn’t make it!

“No!” screamed Legolas frantically, but neither of them heard him. They were lost in something else, a silent battle that Legolas wasn’t a part of. He fought the orcs holding him so violently that he felt the muscles of his arms and legs _tearing_ , but still it was no use.

_“Don’t make me force you to give him up.” Sauron’s gaze was intense, and it seemed he chose to speak directly to Maglor at this moment, because he saw the things that Sauron would do to him in his anger. Staring into his Master’s eyes, Maglor saw all that, but still he shook his head. He was sure and certain for what seemed the first time in decades. This was one thing Sauron couldn’t take from him so easily. He wouldn’t willingly give Mithedhel up to him for any price. Tears came to his eyes for the young one though, because how could he win? All he could do was make it difficult, and Maglor despaired._

_But then suddenly the battle didn’t exist outside. Maglor felt Sauron’s presence in his mind, and he fought it. Every ounce of psychic energy Maglor had, he used to turn the dark lord away. But it was no use. He came back with renewed vigour, the tendrils of his overpowering will like stubborn fingers in his mind, making him forget everything, trying to make him give in to the unthinkable. Letting Mithedhel go. The tears began to fall, an outward sign of the strain he was under, and while Sauron fought with him in this intimate way, Maglor saw some of his thoughts too, and he knew that the dark lord himself believed that to win like this was unfair._

_It didn’t matter why, and Maglor had no time to examine the idea that Sauron was capable of mercy. But he knew that he could appeal to it, and he did…_

“Please,” Maglor said imploringly after a minute or two of struggle, looking into his Master’s eyes as if asking for permission. To give in? To keep him? What difference did it make, really? It was over. Sauron smiled at him, and his hands moved down over Maglor’s cheeks gently, and then over the little uruk’s body, until he was holding Mithedhel under the arms.

“Just let him go,” he said soothingly, almost crooning as Maglor’s grip began to falter. Legolas watched, and he moaned, somehow knowing it wasn’t even going to come to a fight.

_No! Maglor felt what was happening. He barely had time to register that his appeal hadn’t moved Sauron at all before the voice was commanding him. Maglor denied it, he pushed that dark presence from his mind again and again, and yet somehow he wasn’t winning. He felt his hold on Mithedhel loosening against his own will, and inside he screamed. This was more than pain. This was fury again at last, something Maglor hadn’t felt for centuries._

_His aimed his devastating anger at Sauron with all his will, letting him feel the force of it, and something flickered in the depths of his dark eyes. Maglor hoped for regret, but he knew what it was. He had seen it so many times before. Sauron enjoyed the challenge, enjoyed his resistance. And when he realised that, Maglor knew why he was going to lose. He knew why his treacherous hands obeyed Sauron before they obeyed him. It was so simple, and his anger turned upon himself then. He had simply spent too long giving in to him, obeying him. Doing Sauron’s will was more than a habit; it was even more than an addiction. It had become an unalterable part of him, and he could no more disobey than he could stop breathing. He would give Mithedhel up… and it would be his own fault._

“That’s right, _mûl nín_ ,” Sauron breathed, taking the weight from him. “Good.” Maglor cried silently as Mithedhel was taken from him, oh, so gently, and he still couldn’t break the eye contact. Until that is, Mithedhel was passed to a waiting uruk-hai. He followed the progress of his protégé with his eyes, refusing to look back at the dark lord even when Sauron took hold of his arms to keep him from falling. Legolas sobbed as Mithedhel was taken from the room, heartbroken. And Maglor was no better. He watched until there was nothing to see before he looked back at Sauron, and when he did he didn’t really see him anymore.

“Why do you cry? You know there is nothing I cannot take from you, don’t you, _mûl nín_?” Maglor only murmured Mithedhel’s name quietly, and Sauron shook him a little. “Don’t you?”

“Yes, _Herdir_ ,” came the trained response. Sauron still held Maglor up, and his pain was so vibrant and striking, it was as if Sauron held it in his hands. Once more, Maglor was perfectly broken, tantalising in his despair. He pulled Maglor closer, and then the elf seemed to recognise him at last, because he shook his head at the lust in his Master’s eyes.

“No!” When Sauron leaned in, Maglor turned his face away to avoid the kiss and Sauron actually laughed. Again, Legolas saw the cold, sickening truth in his eyes. Challenge.

More roughly, Sauron pulled Maglor close to him; the dark lord’s arms encircling him so that he couldn’t move, and then he simply took what he wanted. Legolas watched, and he could see that Maglor was fighting. His muscles jerked convulsively as he fought to free himself of Sauron’s iron grip, but he hardly moved. The dark lord forced his mouth open cruelly with the pressure of the kiss, so that Legolas realised it must hurt. He could see Sauron’s tongue push into him, and the kiss continued for a minute or two in the same vein before something changed.

_His mind was a house, and Maglor retreated from the windows in haste. He no longer had any will to see what was outside. He ran further in, away from any chance to glimpse the world, opening and closing doors behind him. It was a strange house. The furniture was familiar, almost haunting. Every now and again an object caught his eye as he passed, and at least once he was sure a bright sparkling gem distracted him – but that was impossible. There were pictures on the walls of the halls he hurried through. Places he knew, people he had loved and people he had hated. He didn’t slow for any of it._

_The house seemed to be infinite, and Maglor walked quickly inward, the rooms he passed through were windowless, and the light grew dimmer as he progressed. The things around him were indistinct now, dim shapes and faces flashed by him in the gloom. He still recognised the shape of a harp now and again. But then the house did have a centre, and it wasn’t until Maglor finally reached it that he realised he was being followed._

_The last door behind him flew open, to reveal him, and Maglor cringed back, hoping the darkness of this last safe place would hide him. But of course it didn’t. Sauron walked towards him slowly, looking around. He picked up an ornament from a table and examined it closely before smiling and putting it back down again. Suddenly Maglor was jealous. He couldn’t see the things in this room clearly, and yet somehow Sauron could? He made a sound of surprised resentment, and Sauron advanced on him again, the curious ornament forgotten once more, as it should be._

_“If you stay here, Maglor, you will become as grey and dull as the things around you.” Sauron swept an arm around, to indicate the forgotten pictures and once dear possessions that were now impossible for Maglor to see clearly. Perhaps it was only the dust and the dark. Or maybe they truly had faded, like things left too long in the sun, their colour bleached out and their edges softened until they were only vague impressions of what had once been. “Come back with me.” No. It was his first thought. Let him become and belong to this room then, he didn’t care. He didn’t want to look outside again. He would rather stay here, and let the sharp edges of existence blur until he couldn’t remember himself. He would forget here, already he couldn’t remember what it was that had made him flee, only that it was something he couldn’t face again._

_“You don’t have to remember. I can make you forget.” His promises had no meaning, because he still wanted Maglor to go back out there. And then Maglor realised something. Sauron couldn’t force him to go back. He couldn’t drag him through this place. The house belonged to him, was him in a way. He relaxed then, knowing that he was safe even when Sauron was near him. He couldn’t be made to do anything now. For some reason that was important, and it was good._

_Still, he couldn’t help but fight when Sauron embraced him, although the way he held Maglor was threat enough. He couldn’t make Maglor come back, but he could force other things on him, and his struggles were in vain. He felt the kiss, and he fought that uselessly too, his own wishes seemed to have no effect on what was happening. Sauron stopped for a moment._

_“Stop fighting. If you would truly forget, then I can only help.” Lies! Maglor shook his head slowly, mistrustfully. Something had happened out there. Again, he turned himself away from the memory, frightened that he would find himself back at the windows staring out helplessly. He wanted to stay here. And it was in that refusal to remember that Sauron’s lies worked on him. He wouldn’t allow himself to recall the reasons not to trust, and so instead he remembered his surrender. Didn’t he always trust Sauron? He always knew what to do._

_“Let me help you. Be with me.” And then the kiss began anew, but this time Maglor responded to it, safe in the knowledge that Sauron was not trying to take him back. That indeed, he was encouraging Maglor to stay here where it was safe, where he could trust, and where this was what he wanted. Yes. Surrender. Maglor closed his eyes._

Slowly, Maglor’s struggles ceased, and he even began to respond. The tight hold of Sauron’s arms softened, so that the dark lord could run his hands over Maglor’s back and buttocks, while his plaything moaned and reached up, standing on tip-toe, only to wind his arms around the neck of his enemy. They looked like lovers to Legolas – _they were_. Maglor actually seemed hungry now as he submitted to Sauron’s demands, and just as he had truly given in to the kiss, it ended.

Sauron pulled back only enough to end the touch, and Maglor licked his lips with his eyes closed, looking desperate and needy.

“Tonight will be easy for you. You have pleased me.” Maglor’s eyes flew open and he stared wildly around him as if confused, but then a look of utter betrayal was in his expression and his gaze moved back to Sauron.

“No! Why? You promised!” What did that mean? Legolas thought. Sauron ignored Maglor’s outburst, and instead continued to speak; the cold amusement almost too much for Legolas to take, and he knew it must be worse for Maglor.

“I can be whatever you wish, _mûl vain nín_ , do anything you desire. A reward.” Maglor moaned a ‘No’ but again Sauron ignored him, clearly enjoying the cruelty of his words. “Just speak.”

Maglor looked into his Master’s eyes and said something Legolas didn’t expect. It made sense, but it sounded as though there was more meant by the plea than what he could see.

“ _Let me go_.” It was quietly spoken in complete defeat, and Maglor didn’t even flinch when Sauron laughed at his request.

“No!” he said in return, with malicious joy. The dark lord smiled for a moment longer. “Something else.” Legolas didn’t need to hear the unspoken plea. It was there in Maglor’s eyes, clear as day. _Kill me_. Again Sauron laughed. “Not that either. You know the rules.” Now he smiled coldly. “Would you like me to be cruel?”

Maglor managed to smile faintly. Somehow he managed to look victorious in spite of what had happened, and suddenly Legolas knew why. He watched as a look of peace stole over Maglor’s face, and heard his last, quiet words. “I don’t care.” He said the words as if they were a realisation instead of a feeling. Sauron’s eyes narrowed, and then he caught Maglor as he fell. “I don’t care,” he whispered again, and then he was unconscious.

* * *

Sauron stood with Maglor in his arms, frozen for a while in rare indecision. He thought fast, and he felt his anger rising, but that would not help him now. How could this happen? How could events turn against him this way? He looked down at Maglor, unconscious and at peace. “Escape?” he hissed. “Is that what you think?” But the elf didn’t answer him. There was far too much to deal with, too much at stake – the little uruk hai must be silenced first, before he could address this.

Laying the elf down on the bed gently, he looked to Legolas. “You. Watch him.” He thought he was showing remarkable restraint. Turning to the orcs, he addressed them next. “You. Watch them,” he said, gesturing at the two elves. Maglor would have to wait, but there was no escape – not after all this time. Sauron looked down on Maglor for a single moment before leaving the room then to seek out Mithedhel.

* * *

“Hold my hand!” ‘Athân grabbed hold of Mithedhel’s hand and they looked at each other. “Why were you there?” he asked in frustration. “There’s an entire fortress… but you had to be there?” Mithedhel simply shrugged carelessly in the way that he had, and ‘Athân had to restrain himself from shouting. If he shouted they would fight – and Mithedhel would win. His brother had way too much practice.

‘Athân glared at the uruk hai until they moved on. He assumed they wouldn’t have long to wait, and in his mind he forced himself to be calm. Where else would Mithedhel run to but Maglor? And how could Maglor help his brother with this? ‘Athân truly did dislike Maglor, and it wasn’t just because his father had encouraged him. The elf was not really an elf anymore. He saw how easy it was for his father to control him, and he despised Maglor for that because it was something he recognised in himself.

As much as he was Legolas’ son, he was Sauron’s son too, and he hated to be manipulated, but he knew his father too well by now to doubt that he was treated any differently than the elves. He resented Sauron for instilling him with a hatred for Legolas though. Now it was something he couldn’t shake off. And maybe sometimes he did pity them both, but it was the same pity he would reserve for an animal. They were nothing. That had been his first lesson.

But he feared his father. Not in the same way that Maglor and Legolas did. He feared Sauron in the same way he feared lightning. So powerful, so destructive, but beautiful and deadly… and as well as the fear, his father’s plans sometimes took his breath away. He knew what his fate was, and so in a part of his soul he was glad he could despise Legolas too. But now he had to forget all that, because Mithedhel had seen, and he knew exactly what Sauron intended to do to him now. ‘Athân felt his resolve waver when he saw his father walking towards them, but he couldn’t be swayed.

Making sure that Maglor didn’t follow Mithedhel all over the place was different. His brother endangered himself, and he sort of understood why. Yes, it was different. And he enjoyed the feeling of power it gave him to scare Maglor at last. It brought him closer to his father, and he wanted that, wanted his approval so much sometimes that it hurt. This wasn’t going to gain it him. But this was different. His father would no doubt want to silence Mithedhel in the easiest way – he would want to kill him. And while ‘Athân could live with Mithedhel’s foolishness getting him into trouble, he couldn’t stand by and watch while Sauron murdered him.

Knowing his fate was helpful. Sauron had indeed taught him well as regards the way he manipulated those close to him. Now ‘Athân would use that same knowledge against him. He took a deep, steadying breath.

“Stop.” He almost jumped himself, knowing he had begun, but then he pulled Mithedhel to stand behind him. He watched Sauron halt in sheer surprise, and then the dark lord gave a short laugh.

“Don’t get in my way, Ezellpathân,” Sauron warned, and ‘Athân felt a sudden rush of confidence when he realised that his father had been right. You did indeed know in the first instant when something was going to go your way. The feeling made his nerves quieten, and his fear vanished completely. He smiled then.

“Or what?” He almost laughed when his father’s expression darkened, but then a little of the fear returned. He would be made to pay for what he was doing – but at least he would win. “I won’t let you do it, father. He has done nothing.” Sauron’s eyes narrowed as he considered. ‘Athân saw it, and he was unmoved. But then instead of trying anything else, his father got straight to the point.

“What are you bargaining with?” he asked, too mildly, and ‘Athân stared back at him defiantly, seeing the trick for what it was. After all, Sauron had showed it to him.

“Not much,” he admitted, and then smiled when he saw his father frown. Again, the thought flashed through his mind that he was going to pay for this, but he ignored it. “I know you can force me to do most things. I know at times you will.” The frown deepened in suspicion. ‘Athân carried on. “And so I don’t say I won’t learn. And I don’t say I won’t remember.” He paused. “But there will come a time when I am out of your reach, and you will need me to obey you at a distance…” He didn’t finish the thought, but left it between them, unspoken.

He didn’t expect his father to laugh, but he did. He stood his ground and pushed back the nervousness. “I have been teaching you well.” The laughter stopped. “But you are not so important, Ezelpathân. I should kill you both and begin again.” ‘Athân stood and waited. He had no argument to save his own life. He could only hope that his father would not want to make the last year or so a waste of his time. For a while they stood, waiting while Sauron considered. When his father spoke again, ‘Athân smiled. He had won. “You already know you will pay for this,” Sauron stated coldly.

“I know.” _And I don’t care_.

“I will not allow him to jeopardise anything. You know that.” ‘Athân nodded, and waited for the compromise. “He will have to be locked away.” No more adventuring then. Still, it was better than death, wasn’t it? ‘Athân thought about his brother’s innate curiosity, and wondered. But still he nodded.

“Yes, father.” The deal was made.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Twenty-One

When he had seen to the imprisonment of the half-uruk, Sauron returned to Maglor. He returned with ‘Athân, and when his son ran into his father’s arms with seeming happiness, Sauron smiled inwardly, but then he paid attention to his slave. He considered what to do. Maglor could be asleep, but his eyes were closed and his breathing was just a little too slow, a little too shallow. Now that he was calmer he could admit the truth to himself – that this was his own fault. He had simply pushed the elf too far, and although his magic could keep Maglor from fading whatever cruelties were inflicted on him – when the elf was hurt through someone else the spell was virtually useless.

But what to do now… A plan began to form in his mind, and he knew how to bring the elf back to him. It would take time on his part. A few weeks at least. So? What were a few weeks after all the time he had spent perfecting the elf’s reactions? He wouldn’t let Maglor go now. There was no escape.

Without explaining anything to Legolas, he picked Maglor up from the bed and walked away with him – leaving Legolas and ‘Athân to themselves for a while.

* * *

He awoke in his Master’s arms, in his bed, and he felt the same dull, distant feeling as before. Memories of Mithedhel came to him, and he pulled back. He expected the hands that were gently stroking his back to keep hold of him and force him to stay, but they let go. Maglor sat on the very edge of the bed. He became cold, but it didn’t matter. Every now and again as the time passed he looked at Sauron. The dark lord simply lay quietly, watching him. He sat on the edge of the bed for hours. At some point he realised he was painfully thin. _How long have I been asleep_? He fidgeted, feeling his bones digging in to him. He inspected his hair and found it lacklustre and lifeless, he caught sight of his hands and his fingernails were brittle and weak. _I’m fading_. It didn’t matter.

The time passed. Maglor didn’t move. He was cold. He looked at Sauron, still watching him. There were no questions. Nothing mattered. After some time, maybe an entire day, Maglor crawled back into his Master’s arms, and Sauron held him in the same gentle, undemanding way as before. Warmth. Maglor snuggled closer to this new, different Master. He felt Sauron’s hands resume their gentle stroking, and he sighed. He lay with his face pressed against Sauron’s chest and he breathed in Sauron’s scent deeply. Something changed in him, but Maglor hardly noticed it. Nothing mattered. And so he moved slightly, relaxed completely, embracing the new feeling. Something he had never felt here in Sauron’s arms. He felt safe.

When he awoke again, he was faced away from Sauron. He must have turned in his sleep. He turned over and moved close to his Master. Those arms closed around him once more, and Sauron kissed the top of his head. Safety. He slept again.

The next day, he found himself accepting small amounts of food. They still didn’t speak, and the dark lord didn’t command him to eat. He simply held tiny pieces of bread and fruit against his lips, and Maglor found himself eating. Eventually he refused to open his mouth, turning his head away listlessly, and then Sauron stopped offering the food to him. He drank some water though, and then Maglor lay as before, with those soothing hands stroking him. There was no real change.

The days passed, until the time he awoke alone. He sat up in the bed uncertainly, unconsciously twisting the sheets in his hands. It was only a matter of minutes before Sauron returned, and he came to Maglor immediately when he saw that he was awake. He sat on the edge of the bed, and then opened his arms, and Maglor moved into the embrace gladly.

He found himself in Sauron’s lap with his arms around the dark lord’s neck. Sauron was dressed this time. Maglor trembled. “Shh…” Sauron hushed him, resuming the soothing little touches as before. Safe again. He relaxed, and then for the first time in days, Maglor spoke.

“Don’t leave me again. I don’t want to be alone.” _I don’t want to die alone_. Sauron’s only answer was to kiss his forehead gently. Maglor looked up, finally feeling the need to ask.

“Why?” His voice was flat and emotionless. “Why did you do it?” Maglor shook his head tiredly. _You have finally, actually killed me_. “He was beautiful. He was innocent. He was joy. He was hope.” When he received no answer he began to pull away, and Sauron allowed him to go, but then he didn’t really want to leave the safety, and he moved into the embrace again with a frustrated sigh, burrowing his face into his Master’s shoulder.

“Do you trust me?” Sauron asked softly. Maglor thought for a while. He was clear in his thoughts. His life seemed distant now, but he remembered everything. The answer he gave was as close to the truth as he could get in words.

“Yes. But I don’t believe you. I never did.” Sauron seemed to consider that for a while, then he asked another question.

“Do you love me?” Again, Maglor devoted thought to the question, and tried to answer honestly.

“Yes. But I hate you. I always did.” There was another lengthy pause, and Maglor began to think the conversation was over. Did everything he wanted to say come down to those few statements? It seemed so little for all that had transpired. Was this really all he had to say to Sauron?

“Do you forgive me?”

“No,” he answered without bothering to think, but then he found himself thinking about it anyway, thinking about what Sauron was asking for. “No!” He looked up at Sauron now in shock, suddenly seeing what he was trying to do. “Don’t ask me that!” he said, but in his heart he knew it was already too late. Sauron knew exactly what to do. He always did.

“But I have to. Can you forgive me?” It wasn’t a command. Sauron voiced the request with what sounded like curiosity and Maglor shook his head.

“No, I can’t,” he said quickly. He glared at Sauron for even mentioning it. “You mustn’t ask me for that. You must see that I can’t.” Sauron only looked down on him with something in his eyes that might be pity. But he was a liar, wasn’t he? Maglor tried to remember that fact as Sauron replied.

“I didn’t take him to hurt you, or to test you.” He ran a finger lovingly down Maglor’s cheek. “He saw something he shouldn’t have seen. I had no choice.” He sighed and looked at Maglor earnestly, as if he was asking for such a little thing. “Can you forgive me for hurting you?”

Oh! It was such a little thing! Not to be asked for forgiveness for the crime, but for forgiveness for what it meant to him. And it would be enough, he knew. If he gave in to this, then he would stay, and carry on being a prisoner here. “Please…” he begged, knowing that with his very words he was encouraging Sauron to continue. “Do anything you want to me, but not this.” _Let me go_.

“You know how important it is, forgiveness. Can you deny someone, even someone such as me, something you desire so much?” Maglor cried for the first time in days. Emotion returned, and he knew it was already done. Such a small thing. And it was the asking that made it so, whether it was genuine or not. Still, the dark lord asked. He took Maglor’s arms from around his neck and held his hands in front of his face. He bent his head and kissed Maglor’s palms softly, and then looked into his eyes.

“Don’t,” Maglor pleaded desperately, somehow knowing what was going to come next. “Don’t say it, please, no, don’t speak.” He shook his head, trying to make Sauron stop. Stop him from saying what he was about to say, because it was so very wrong.

“Please,” Sauron whispered.

It was unnatural. It shouldn’t be like this. And it was that feeling more than anything else that made Maglor give in to the dark lord’s wishes. It was already done anyway, and Maglor gave it to him before Sauron could say ‘please’ again. “Yes,” he breathed. “I forgive you.” It was done, and now he would stay.

“Thank you,” Sauron said, and placed Maglor back on the bed before lying down beside him. Maglor cried, not for himself, but for Mithedhel. His short life had been worth something, hadn’t it? Sauron allowed him to cry, but at the same time his touches were not so soothing as before. Now his Master felt dangerous once more. Maglor didn’t breathe a word of protest when Sauron pushed him onto his stomach. Nor did he say anything when Sauron’s intentions became obvious. He cried helplessly into the pillows when Sauron took him. His body was weakened and he felt dizzy for lack of food. Maglor relaxed even though he expected to feel pain, but it was much too easy for the dark lord to take him, and Maglor knew that Sauron must have prepared him for this while he slept. Sickened, he knew it meant only one thing. That all along Sauron had known he would bring Maglor back.

The pleasure was as intense as the pain. Maglor moaned quietly, aware that his body reacted the same as it always did. He couldn’t stop it, and it felt like disrespect to enjoy this now, but he couldn’t help himself. Once more, Sauron was his tormentor and his comfort. Sauron was all things, and when the dark lord began to move harder and faster, groaning because he was near release, Maglor knew that he was lost. His own orgasm wasn’t really important, and he endured it with a word of regret on his lips. He didn’t know who the apology was for anymore, but he knew he hadn’t wanted to enjoy this.

When Sauron reached completion, and stopped moving at last, Maglor trembled and quivered beneath him, crying into the pillows as if his soul was being torn apart. Was his Master pleased? He hardly felt Sauron taking hold of one of his hands to clasp it tightly, but he heard the dark lord’s words clearly. “I have missed you, _mûl vain nín_.” Everything was back to the way it was. But nothing would ever be the same. He felt Sauron brushing his hair away to the side, so that he could kiss the back of Maglor’s neck. It sent an electric shiver through him.

“Don’t cry,” he said quietly. “I told you I wouldn’t let you go. It was never your choice to leave. You should know this by now.” Maglor only sobbed a little more for hearing the truth, but true to Sauron’s wishes the tears stopped falling as he answered.

“Yes, _Herdir_.” But somewhere deep inside, in a place that was hidden even from Maglor, an old idea began to reassert itself. Escape.

* * *

It had been at least two weeks, and ‘Athân was slowly going out of his mind. For two weeks he really had no one but Legolas for company while his father was off somewhere else with the slave. He knew there was a price to pay for his insistence on saving Mithedhel’s life, but even so he began to wish Sauron would return to take him away. A few times he managed to convince the uruk hai who brought their meals to lead him away in the morning. He could speak their language. Language was one of the things Sauron insisted on him learning; the more the better. And he was grateful for that now. On those days he went to visit his brother. Mithedhel was in a worse state than he was. He was terribly bored, just as ‘Athân had expected. Still, it couldn’t be helped, and at least he was still alive. He gave his brother books to read to alleviate the long days, but he knew it wasn’t really enough.

Although he had been taught to despise Legolas, nothing made him hate the elf more than knowing that he had stood by and allowed Mithedhel to be taken from him. His own son. The elves were weak, and stupid. Yes, all the things his father said were true. He observed Legolas’ grief with a cold detachment, and no part of him wanted to spare Legolas the misery. He deserved to believe Mithedhel was dead. He had done nothing to save him, after all.

Still, the amount of time Sauron spent away began to worry him, and his anticipation of the price for his defiance grew. With no one to confide in, ‘Athân found that stress was a difficult burden, and when Maglor returned he was at breaking point. To see the elf return after he had been fading was almost amusing. He was so easily controlled. What had it taken for his father to keep the elf here? Probably not much. ‘Athân had no respect for either of them.

The next morning, the uruk hai came for him as usual, as if his lessons had never halted, and ‘Athân went gladly. He would face his punishment now. But his father did nothing. The day passed in much the same way as any other, and he began to feel uncomfortable. Sauron would not have forgotten.

Before he was sent away, Sauron beckoned him closer, and at first ‘Athân was sure this was it, but Sauron only measured him against the wall. It was one of the more peculiar things his father did; one of the things that gave ‘Athân hope that Sauron sometimes thought of him as a son rather than a tool to be used. There were marks on the wall made by chalk. The first one was very low, a measurement of his height the first day he had come here to be taught. Every month was a new line, a visual depiction of his growth.

Now he was measured again, but the month wasn’t over, so why now? When he had finished, Sauron used the chalk to draw a line high on the wall, well above ‘Athân’s head. He smiled then, and ‘Athân was afraid.

“How long do you think it will take to reach this line?” ‘Athân didn’t know what Sauron expected him to say. What was this about? He looked again, and he realised he would be fully-grown when he was that tall. He would be an adult. It was years away from now.

“Thirteen years?” he hazarded, thinking that he must say something.

“Anticipation is a useful tool, Ezelpathân. But, as always, I will show you as well as tell you.” ‘Athân stared at the line, so far away. “When you reach this line, I will punish you for your refusal to co-operate. Do you understand?”

‘Athân continued to stare at the line. So far away… for now. But it would get closer. He shivered, understanding completely what it would mean; and already anticipating how it would feel when he drew near it. A little closer every month. It would be torture. He looked up at his father, and Sauron was smiling at him coldly.

“Yes, father,” he said slowly.

* * *

When he returned to Legolas and Maglor, ‘Athân was still reeling with the final words Sauron had said to him. ‘Athân had made the mistake of asking why he would need to be so tall. Apart from the terrible torture of the anticipation, there must be a reason his father had chosen so high a target. Then Sauron had laughed.

“You are a child, and you are still so impressionable,” he reached down to caress ‘Athân’s face. “When you are older, you will quite naturally resist.” ‘Athân wondered what his father meant by that, and as if he had asked, Sauron answered him. “It will be much more difficult to make you scream.”

Now he was back with the elves, and their ‘grief.’ ‘Athân felt his rage burning in him until he couldn’t keep it in any longer…

He said what he wanted to say to Legolas, finally telling the truth, regardless of the consequences, and when he presented himself to his father the next morning, it seemed that Sauron already knew what had happened. He walked over to the wall where the line was drawn in silence, and marked the number two next to it. ‘Athân nodded in understanding. He wasn’t left with the elves again, but given his own lonely room. In some ways it was a relief.

* * *

There were many places that he could have gone for this. Their boundaries were not made of stone, and so he could have just wandered until they found him. But he had come here, because he seemed to think of this hall as their place. Sauron didn’t use the giant room for anything, and often their whispering could be heard here.

He entered the hall quietly, and stood for a moment or two before walking into the room properly, away from the safety of the door. It was still silent, and Maglor walked quickly, until he could no longer see the wall behind him. Then he stopped and waited.

As he waited he thought back on what had finally driven him to come here. Why would he ask for their help now, when he had no interest in it before? The answer was simple. For Legolas. ‘Athân had finally shown his true colours, and had said such terrible things to his father that Maglor knew he would fade. On top of the certainty of Mithedhel’s death, it was too much. For now Legolas was still hoping that ‘Athân would return and apologise. But the more he thought on those harsh words, the more Legolas would come to realise that there was no going back on them.

These were not heated, angry things, but truths that ‘Athân had obviously been keeping back for a long time. He told Legolas how much he hated him for his weakness and his willingness to co-operate with Sauron. Told him how sick it made him to be ‘looked after’ by someone who obviously couldn’t look after themselves. To top it all, ‘Athân had finished by saying that after the way he acted, Legolas deserved Mithedhel’s death on his conscience. The light in Legolas’ eyes had died when ‘Athân spoke the last few words. “How could I possibly look up to something like you? How could I ever seek to emulate you?” he had said in undisguised disgust. “My father is not an elf. My father is not a Prince. My father is Maiar.” No, Legolas would not recover from that.

And so he was here to ask for help. He wasn’t scared of them. They had no substance, and could only threaten. He waited in the darkness, listening to his own breath, while the thick, unnatural warmth gathered around him. He saw movement, but he didn’t turn and look. He still waited. Eventually the picture in front of him seemed to change somewhat. He blinked to bring it into focus, and he was right. There was a white figure walking towards him through the gloom. Maglor watched in silence. He didn’t realise he was holding his breath. He wiped his hands down the front of the thin fabric of his clothes.

Was it coming closer? He strained to see, and then it rushed him. Maglor cried out and stumbled backwards as the figure moved quickly forward until he was sure he must be knocked down by it – but it passed straight through him. He knew what it was now. The last impression he had was of a grinning skull, so close that even when it was gone he continued moving back, trying to get away from it. The whispering began then.

What were they saying? He couldn’t possibly tell. So many voices, all saying the same thing in a different way. From nowhere a hand shoved him, and he whirled around quickly to find that he was alone in the dark. Again, and slowly but surely Maglor was pushed around the hall, until he realised with a start that he was lost within it. He no longer knew which way was the way out. And at the same time he realised he knew what the ghosts were saying.

_Lost… Forgotten… Alone… Dead… Silent…_

“I wish to speak with you.” Maglor almost didn’t recognise the sound of his own voice, but with the words a little of his fear dissipated, and he remembered why he was here. The voices around him laughed, and it seemed as if he must be stood in a crowd of people – but he was alone.

_

We know what you want… We know why you are here… We know what you will say…

_

Again he was being pushed around, forced to step back and then to turn, until he was sure he was almost dancing with them. Some of the voices laughed again. “Then please tell me. There must be an escape,” he said indignantly. The voices whispered back.

_No escape for his slave… No way out for his plaything…He will never kill you…_

They were making fun of him! Maglor closed his eyes to their laughter. And with his eyes closed, he saw them. Oh, so many! Maglor had known none of them until they became spirits, trapped in this place. Until Legolas arrived he had always been alone. And yet they must have been real once. There were male and female here, old and young, sylvan, sindar and noldor. He couldn’t even count them, and he saw the same story in them all. Sauron had failed with each and every one. Some of the elf maidens cradled their swollen bellies as though the life inside them had survived. Still others cried for their loss. And suddenly Maglor was aware of the sadness. Not sadness for their plight, and for their entrapment here, but for their children. So many!

Then he realised that others had almost survived. Male elves for the most part. The wounds were only small, and in the same place as he had observed on Legolas, but they had not lived through the strange operation. Some though had not survived the first taking, passing away from grief despite the spell, only to awaken still trapped here. Maglor shook his head and opened his eyes, but now the vision was real. They stood in front of him. “I’m so sorry,” he said helplessly.

_I am sorry, hîr nín… Forgive me, Herdir…_

The ghosts laughed at him in their misery, and Maglor began to despair. Why had he come here? They weren’t able to help anyway. Elves they may have once been, but the centuries of imprisonment had maddened their very souls. He was given a sudden vision of himself as one of these, running through the fortress again and again, never finding a way out. Sauron appeared, and he watched himself try to draw the dark lord’s attention. It was impossible. He was nothing. He saw himself with Sauron, and knew he was unable to intervene. The Maglor in his vision begged for the dark lord’s mercy and favours. They had been watching him!

_Maglor… Criminal… You will never be forgiven… Accept your punishment… We wish it were ours…_

Suddenly Maglor was angry. What right had they to judge? He did accept his punishment – he always had. “And what of the Prince? You must know of him. Does he deserve this place?”

_We care not… We are no longer judged… Mandos did not claim us… We are forgotten… Why should we care?_

“Forgotten.” He repeated the word as if it held meaning, thinking that in some ways their positions were just the same.

_Alone… Dead… Lost… Silent…_

There would be no help. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he admitted then, realising that they wouldn’t help even if they could. But then they surprised him – they gave him a warning.

_Too late now… He searches for you… Maglor is lost… There is no escape…_

“Please! You must help us!” he shouted desperately. But soon the ghosts melted away like frost in the sun, and Maglor realised that although they were gone, he was not alone.

“Why are you here, _mûl nín_? What did you come here for?” He turned in dread to face Sauron, trying not to let his face show what he had been doing. What had he been doing? Maglor looked confused and then shook his head slowly, giving an answer to his Master that would surely mean punishment.

“I can’t remember.” Sauron looked at him for a few moments, and then frowned.

“No… you can’t,” he said slowly, as if in consideration. He looked around. “Do you think he can help you? You are trapped, and you will always be trapped! Useless in death as in life!” He turned to regard Maglor again, and took hold of his arm. He smiled when his slave trembled.

“Come. I wish to hear you play for me,” he said, and Maglor whimpered despite himself, unable to keep it in. “If you are good and please me, I might give you a reward,” Sauron said devilishly, pulling Maglor close to him for a moment to claim his lips in a kiss.

“Yes, _Hîr nín_.” Maglor didn’t remember what had transpired until he was returned to Legolas and left alone. But then he did, and the whispering began again while Maglor listened carefully to every word.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“You will show us?” Maglor asked uncertainly, wondering if this was some kind of trick. The hastily whispered assent scared him too though, and he wondered what the cost of their help was. He looked towards the bed and saw it was too late anyway. Legolas was sleeping with his eyes closed. It had begun. He couldn’t carry the Prince from this place, and even if he could, what difference would it make to the pain in his soul?

But then he noticed a shimmering in the air between them as the ghosts hovered around the Prince. Maglor stood up, already drawing in a breath to demand that they leave him alone, but then Legolas awoke.

_He will not fade… He will not die… He will not be silent…_

Legolas was awake, but not truly conscious, and he began to speak strange words that had Maglor completely confused until he realised what they were. The words were names. And the shimmering became clearer in front of his eyes until he could see them filing past Legolas, leaning to whisper into his ear. Their names. And every one Legolas repeated, committing them to memory for a reason, a reason that was becoming clearer and clearer to Maglor.

The price for their aid was really nothing, and he almost cried for them. For what they wanted was so simple, and so moving. They wanted their names to be taken to the outside world. They wanted their fate to be known. It was heartbreaking.

When every name had been repeated, Legolas awoke properly. The terrible pain was still in his eyes, but it seemed he could no longer give in to it. Perhaps it would return when he had fulfilled his part of the bargain, but Maglor hoped that other things would encourage him to stay by then. Because now it would finally happen. There was a way out. The ghosts had explained it to him. Now all that remained was for one of them to show the way.

* * *

Silently, Legolas followed Maglor through the fortress. He knew who he was really following. He could still hear their voices in his head, their presence in his soul. They had kept him from sleep, from nothingness. Their grief was so much more insistent than his, and he could do nothing but obey. He hadn’t spoken a word to Maglor, but he didn’t need to. They would escape then. And maybe when all was said and done he could be left in peace once more. Legolas really didn’t care about escape any longer, but he found he did care about what _they_ wanted from him.

It seemed there was no preparation for their journey, no gathering of possessions or useful items. It all seemed so rushed, and so there was barely a moment to think of the children, but he thought of them anyway. Poor Mithedhel, nothing could replace him. And as for ‘Athân… Perhaps he had been bound to be left behind. He was Sauron’s child too – and it seemed he was happy with that. It had hurt to hear the truth, but he couldn’t deny it. He was weakened and pathetic in this place.

If the choice had been his though, he would never have left while ‘Athân was still alive. How could a parent ever give up on a child? But then the voices were talking to him, begging him to tell their story to the world outside, and he knew that he had to do it. And so now he followed, and he was silent, alone with his thoughts.

He was surprised when they took a path through the fortress that led downwards. He had assumed they would be led to the great doors. Maglor didn’t seem surprised at all though, merely resigned, although he seemed to get nervous as they passed several doors on what turned out to be the lowest level.

Eventually they came to a door that could quite easily be just another cell, but when it was opened there wasn’t a room behind the door, only a wide passage. Legolas looked around, and saw their companions standing with them. For the first time he realised that Maglor couldn’t see them, that they were only revealed to him. And now he knew they couldn’t go any further. One of them reached out to touch him, but stopped before those cold fingers would have brushed against his skin. They were bound from going any further. Legolas simply walked forward into their midst, ignoring the escape route, ignoring Maglor, and ignoring his own feelings for the moment.

He wasn’t aware what was said to him, but when the ghosts left he was filled with purpose, and he turned to Maglor as if to say that it was time to go. They had no guide from this point on, and it was never going to be easy.

The passage became a wide tunnel carved into the volcanic rock beneath the ground. There were few torches to light the way, and as they walked they realised that this place was much more than a rarely used tunnel – it was a labyrinth. Occasionally there were small rooms set off the passages that offered scum-covered water, and very rarely – food. They tried to head in a constant direction, but it soon became clear that they were counting on luck to show them the way out.

It must have taken weeks. Stolen hours in the quieter places for them to sleep – one at a time. Every now and again they were forced to hide from companies of orcs, although the way was a lot quieter than they had any right to expect.

Maglor was astonished to find that the tunnels were real. He had thought they were a desperate dream. He had also thought there were no real surprises left, but he was astounded by this. In scale it was a gigantic undertaking, and yet it must have been made while he was with Sauron. After all, Sauron had brought him here. Comparing the tunnels to the giant fortress, however, made him realise that for someone such as Sauron, something like this was nowhere near unfeasible. Barad-Dûr itself had been built not once, but twice. For his Master this wasn’t impossible at all.

As the time went on and on, both of them succumbed to despair, passing through phases where the going was slow because they could quite easily be wandering in here for years. At other times they seemed to almost run through the place, taking turns and junctions without any kind of pattern – just wishing to find something that looked different. But nothing seemed to change. Then, after an unknown amount of time wandering in the darkness, they found steps that led up.

They considered. Although there were stairs here – it clearly wasn’t the end. The passage they were standing in continued on past the stone staircase. After some thought they decided to continue on, reasoning that it could only lead them further away from the fortress, and closer to the edge of Sauron’s land. When they found stairs again, they were much smaller, and this time the tunnel did end. There was nothing for it. Hesitantly, they walked up. It wasn’t as easy as Maglor had thought. It seemed that they must have been headed downwards even though the labyrinth had seemed flat because there were so many stairs. It must have taken at least a day to climb them.

When they reached the top, they emerged into a small brick building without windows. They had hardly made a sound, and still they didn’t speak. They explored the building in silence, and came to a main hallway. The door was before them. It was so small! Before they could cross the hall to get to it, Maglor had a terrible feeling, and he turned to Legolas in fear. The familiarity of the feeling drained any hope he might have had.

* * *

“He’s here,” Maglor whispered urgently. Legolas froze, and turned to look at the other elf questioningly.

“I just know, _pen neth_ , trust me, I can sense him.” Legolas nodded once, silently, to show he understood, and then almost cried out when Maglor suddenly pushed him against the wall so that they were hidden in the shadows.

Maglor held Legolas’ palms against the wall, and he smiled a little when Legolas clasped his hands. They were so close, each could feel the other’s heartbeat, racing wildly. Their lips were nearly touching, and Legolas could almost forget where they were, and what was happening, until a voice broke the spell.

“You’re hiding from me. It won’t work. Come out, Legolas.” And now there was a different kind of magic in the air. At the sound of the summons, Legolas’ sense of fear and self-preservation vanished. His eyes half-closed, and his hold on Maglor’s hands went slack. He moved a little, ready to walk away from their hiding place. He felt Maglor’s grip on his hands tighten, and he looked into the other elf’s eyes without comprehending for a moment. Then the insistent, panicked look in Maglor’s eyes brought him back, and Legolas almost sighed in relief. Had he really been about to give them up?

Before he could answer that question Sauron spoke again, but this time his words had a different effect.

“Maglor, _dannon nín_ , speak to me.”

Maglor closed his eyes as if in desperate prayer and rested against Legolas so that their foreheads were touching. He held on to Legolas’ hands tightly as if he were holding on to his own life. But still, he drew in a breath, and Legolas knew if he didn’t rescue his companion, it would all be over. Without giving it another thought, he tilted his head and kissed the other elf. Their kiss was the same as it had always been; silent, unhurried and serene. They connected with one another in a way that no other race had, and as they stood together, lost in each other, the shadow passed by them.

They emerged cautiously after a long period of time just waiting. Sauron did not return, and so, feeling safe at last, the two elves ventured out. The small door led outside, and it was so bright that they spent some minutes in the shade of the building’s entrance until their eyes became accustomed to the light again. Legolas hadn’t realised how far they had come. This was further than the edge of Mordor, well beyond the massive gates. Perhaps this building was a secret exit, used for spies, or other servants than orcs. If he looked back he could see the dark, dry land behind them. But he didn’t have any heart for looking back. Before him were the first trees of happier places and freer lands. Legolas ran to them, all forgotten except joy.

Immediately he knew that these were not the same cursed woods. There was life all around, even at the very end of winter. Promise danced lightly on the very air. There were tiny buds on the trees; snowdrops grew in the more sheltered places, seeming to advertise spring. Daffodils! Even in the cold, and the bare understated winter there was enough colour to drown the senses. A single red squirrel paused where it was digging and looked up from the green moss-covered ground, before flashing away to climb the nearest tree, away from the strange being who was simply stood smiling at it, almost laughing. Life! He looked back at Maglor.

If this seemed wondrous to him – how must it seem to Maglor? He had been shut up for so long. Kept away. Maglor looked around him as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing. Taking his hands, Legolas drew him forward slowly into the trees and Maglor reached out to touch them, as if in shock that they really existed. He looked at Legolas and shook his head slightly, a smile beginning to show itself. It was the first true smile that Legolas had seen the other elf give, and he couldn’t help but answer it.

“Free,” Maglor whispered quietly, as if to speak the word with any strength would make the world around them disappear. He suddenly looked around again, suspiciously, as if certain that he had broken some spell, and the trees would vanish like smoke on the breeze. Legolas laughed.

“Free!” He shouted it, and the trees remained. But they shouldn’t linger. He knew a way to make this fun though. Legolas began to run through the wood, casting a glance back as if daring Maglor to follow him, and he did.

They ran for hours, exhilarated, drowning in the outside, in the blessed cold, and the crisp, fresh smell of the season. Drunk on freedom, the strong winter sun reminding them that they had escaped. That they were free! When they were tired they found a sheltered place to stay near some large rocks and built a fire. Maglor had almost forgotten such simple things, and to rediscover them was a pleasure in itself. He was thousands of years older than his companion, but an observer would have been forgiven for assuming Maglor was the younger. His eyes danced with joy and happiness at every one of his rediscoveries.

It was cold, but it wouldn’t bother them. Not now. The cold couldn’t hurt them, and after the continual unnatural warmth of Mordor, both of them thought they would never tire of it. They ate the small amount of fruit and nuts they could find, and then simply sat in the dusk, watching as the world went to sleep. Their thoughts naturally turned to Mithedhel and ‘Athân. They didn’t need to speak, but after the joyous day melancholy stole over them as the twilight drew closer. They both shed silent tears for Mithedhel, and cried too for the corrupted spirit of ‘Athân. Maybe they would fade with the light, Maglor thought. Out of the shade and shelter of Sauron’s will – free – maybe there was a price to pay. Would the truth come crashing down on them, crushing them under its weight? Suddenly Maglor jumped. He looked up curiously, and instantly the childish joy was back.

“Legolas!” His voice broke and he looked down, shaking his head. But then he looked around him and stood up, holding out his hands out to the air. “It’s snowing!” Maglor breathed. He looked at the Prince, but Legolas had already made the discovery for himself, and he was like Maglor, standing with his hands held out to the flakes as if to catch and keep them. They marvelled at it together, but dark was fast coming, and night found them huddled together next to the fire for warmth. Maglor rested his head on Legolas’ chest, who kept watch, and he looked for all the world younger. It was breathtaking to see him now. He wasn’t the same elf who had lived under Sauron’s hand. No. He really wasn’t. Legolas smiled in the firelight and kissed Maglor’s hair tenderly.

When morning came they were asleep in each other’s arms. Legolas cursed himself when he awoke. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but at least there was no harm done. Even the fire still burnt quite brightly. After a few more branches were laid on it, it gave off as much warmth as they could wish to wake up to. Overnight the world around them had turned white. Legolas was sure he had never seen snow settle so fast. He left the still sleeping Maglor for a while to walk out in it and stare.

Action was required though. Legolas used the knife they had stolen to turn a largish branch into a rather crude spear and went to the nearby stream. He came back half an hour or so later with a couple of particularly slow moving fish. Perhaps they were just as struck by the sudden snowfall as he was. Whatever. It was breakfast.

By the time Maglor awoke, the air smelt pleasantly of cooked fish, and he inhaled deeply. Then everything came back and his smile was radiant. “Free!” he exclaimed to himself, as if the word was all he needed to survive. Legolas nudged him with a little laugh.

“Breakfast,” he said, pointing out the fish he had caught and cooked while his lover slept in. He was beginning to wonder about the basis of their relationship now that they were away from Sauron, and out in the world together, but soon he didn’t. Maglor ignored the food and leaned over to kiss him deeply, pushing him back so that he laughed. But Legolas gave in to the treatment and allowed Maglor to have what he wanted.

He found himself pressed to the ground, beyond the reach of the fire so that the deep snow was behind his back, and he saw Maglor’s eyes widen as he took in the scene. He didn’t let Legolas up, but simply rested on him and examined the snow on the ground. Legolas moved a little as if to throw the other elf off, and then he smirked mischievously. While Maglor was busy paying attention to the snow, Legolas picked up a largish clump of it with his hand. Then he threw his arms around the other elf, rubbing the snow into his back as punishment for keeping him prisoner on the cold ground.

Gasping loudly, Maglor lay flat on Legolas and buried his head in the Prince’s blond hair. “You will pay for that,” he threatened, and then ruined the effect of his words by giggling. They fought in the snow like children, laughing and for a while forgetful of just what they left behind. The snow still fell on and around them. They tumbled and wrestled, disturbing the pristine expanse of white. A deer watched them for a while – _elves playing in the snow_ – it wasn’t unnatural. Then a snowball flew past her, and she bolted, leaving the elves to their fun.

* * *

It should be his by now. The fact that he couldn’t find the ring bothered him. It more than bothered him. He couldn’t even see it, and yet it should be easy to find. It was partly him, after all. He should be able to feel for it. Why… where was it hidden? And who was hiding it? Did they know what it was?

The questions came back again and again, and they infuriated him. There were never answers. He almost stood, thinking that at a time like this he wanted something else. The elf would soothe this horrible uncertainty. Sauron couldn’t bear uncertainty – especially not when it concerned him. Yes… the elf would make him forget. And what is more, Maglor would thank him for the opportunity. But then he remembered.

They were gone. Oh, he needed to let them go, but he had wanted to keep Maglor. After all this time, all these centuries – no – millennia. Now he was alone once more, and it actually felt strange. Sauron smirked, although there was no one to see him. Did they really believe their hiding places had been good enough to keep them from him? He could sense them; smell their scent, hear their frantic breathing when he had come too close. Sauron shook his head, and paid attention to the Palantír again. He narrowed his eyes, and waved his hand across it, forcing it to show him something other than the endless search for the ring.

A different scene presented itself immediately. There they were. Playing. The elf was lying back in the snow now. Flakes of it had settled on his hair and eyelashes, and once more Sauron appreciated Maglor’s beauty. It wasn’t too late, even now. He had a sudden vision of the wolf, running through the winter snows, tracking them, and when he found Maglor he would… Sauron closed his eyes and silently reminded himself why he should leave them be. Legolas had to escape, and Maglor…

Far better to allow him freedom now, and to have him back, than to never let him see the truth at all. Sauron laughed at his own thoughts. What he meant was that Maglor should see the lie he had been living with. The Valar might very well forgive him, and in fact Sauron suspected that for centuries they had just been waiting for him to ask. But like all deities they were cold. And Maglor would find out that they made unreasonable demands. They hadn’t been watching him at all. Sauron would surely have known if they were. No, they hadn’t been paying attention, and when Maglor reached the point of asking, what would they say? He looked into the Palantír once more, and then spoke as if the elf would hear him.

“They are waiting for you, _mûl vain nín_. They will offer you a dream, such a beautiful dream and you will want to share it. But you will see what they try to hide.” He smiled, but he wasn’t really amused; perhaps he actually felt a little sympathy. His voice became low and quiet. “They forgot about you, Maglor. They gave you up to me without a single word of protest. Here, with me, you have always been alone. And had the choice been theirs, they would have left you here forever.” Maglor did not hear his words, and so he continued playing, carefree and happy. Sauron smiled a little when Maglor laughed, and dragged Legolas to the ground to cover him with snow. Maglor would remember whom he belonged to in time. It was what he wanted above all else, to have the elf with him alone. He grew tired of the way his slave always had to think of _them_. There should only be one concern on his mind. When this was over, it would be exactly the way Sauron wanted it. He continued speaking.

“They will ask you for something in exchange for the dream, although they will phrase it as a gift. They will demand to heal your soul, to take away everything I have done. They will want you to forget about me, and make you what you once were. What you have endured means nothing to them, and they will require you to give it up.” He leaned forward very slightly, never letting his eyes wander from the stone, staring intensely. “It has taken most of your long life to walk the path I chose for you, to become mine in every sense of the word. I alone appreciate your suffering, I alone take pleasure from it, and therein lies your reward too.” He paused. “You _will_ return to me.” Sauron knew that Maglor would be happy to forget. But he would find it difficult nevertheless. They would ask to take away his experience. In a way, they would require a death of sorts. No one would agree to that, least of all Maglor – the elf only wished to find death at one person’s hands – his. Satisfied, he waved his hand over the stone, and a dead, black cloud settled over its eye on the world.

Getting up, Sauron wandered the halls, finding himself at last before the door to that room. But the elf wasn’t within. Not ready and waiting to please him. Sauron hesitated. It wasn’t loneliness. Absolutely not. It was… breaking a habit. He entered the room anyway and sat for a while on the bed. He inhaled deeply, and realised that he could still smell the elf in this place. He resisted the temptation to lie down and bury his face in the bedclothes. This was _not_ loneliness. He began thinking of all the things he had done, and knew that it was enough. Maglor would be back, and when he returned he would be here forever – by choice.

His mind turned to other things then, and he thought about the half-uruk. Was there potential for the child to serve him in some way? When he grew he would be like the uruk hai, but more capable of planning. Perhaps it was time to find out.

* * *

Mithedhel awoke from the strangest dream. The little uruk had never really known cold, but he shivered now in his cell. Light suddenly flooded the room when the door opened at last, and Sauron walked in to study him. Mithedhel snarled at him. He had heard Maglor cry when he had been led away by Golrakh, and Mithedhel was sure that _he_ had done it. Golrakh had put him here, and left him alone for so long where it was boring. _That_ wasn’t like him, and Mithedhel could only assume that his current boredom was Sauron’s fault too.

Of course, he wasn’t completely alone. Sometimes ‘Athân visited him, and his brother brought what he called ‘books,’ that were full of all the words Maglor had taught to him. But the best parts were the pictures – Mithedhel didn’t think he had ever seen anything so beautiful. Books! What a brilliant idea! He had wondered why Maglor hadn’t shown them to him before, but ‘Athân said that Sauron didn’t allow Maglor to have books. His resentment towards Sauron grew.

But, true to his personality, there were times he couldn’t stand to be near his brother, times when the beast was upon him. And at those times he was left alone to shout and scream, and claw at the heavy door with his fingernails, desperate to be let out and to get to the uruk hai who alone understood him like this. But now, it seemed, his existence was about to change again.

As he studied Mithedhel, the dark lord had a gleam in his eye. He smiled as if he liked what he was looking at, and he reached out, only to suddenly draw back with a pained cry when the young uruk sank his sharp teeth into the dark lord’s hand. Sauron stood well back for a few moments, while his face appeared to change, but then it didn’t. He breathed loudly in the small cell, and when the flitting shadows left his features he looked at Mithedhel with narrowed eyes. The little uruk snarled again. The dark lord nodded to himself, and sneered at his own foolishness, then turned and left, but the door remained open.

Just as Mithedhel had decided to venture to it, someone else strode in. He sighed rather obviously when he saw it was only Golrakh. He wanted Maglor back. He had a question that needed answering. But then he ran to Golrakh when the uruk hai opened his arms and felt himself carried out of the cell and back to the uruk hai living quarters.

“Elves are gone. You belong to us.” He had never heard Golrakh speak elvish before, and Mithedhel opened his eyes wide. What else did he know? Maybe… But then what he had said struck Mithedhel and he wrinkled his brow for a moment before bursting into tears.

“Dead?” Mithedhel asked in a little voice when he could stop crying long enough to speak again. Golrakh shrugged, and the little uruk was inconsolable. Maglor was gone! His father was gone! He was sure it was all Sauron’s fault. Any other child would have cried and become quiet – but not him. He needed a fight, and when they got back to the large room that Golrakh and his company occupied, the uruk hai found it took a good long while to exhaust him, and when they did he still didn’t seem at ease. Golrakh didn’t understand why it should affect him so much. After all, what were the elves? But he tried to do something for the little one. He gave Mithedhel a drink, and then let the little uruk shove him around for a bit. Eventually, he quietened, and then he asked a question that had Golrakh completely stumped. He had no idea where it had come from.

“What is snow?” Golrakh knew the answer; it was only Mithedhel’s asking of it that had him wondering. He replied with confidence in the black speech.

“It falls white from the sky.” But that didn’t seem to satisfy Mithedhel, and he sighed dramatically at the disappointing answer. Golrakh thought about it for a while, and then spoke again.

“It is cold.” At that Mithedhel suddenly smiled, as if he was seeing something other than the filthy room. He stood up and held out his little hands, turning around slowly in circles, his bewitching green eyes shining.

“It falls,” he repeated, as if he finally understood. “It is cold.” Then he looked around, straight at Golrakh. “Snow!” he exclaimed, as if it was an answer to some question. Golrakh shrugged helplessly, confused at Mithedhel’s sudden strange behaviour. “It’s snowing!” he insisted, and one of the more stupid uruk hai nearby looked up at the ceiling as if expecting it to come falling down on them all. Mithedhel laughed at that, and then flung himself at Golrakh happily. Golrakh didn’t know what it meant to Mithedhel, but when he thought, he knew it would probably be snowing out there.

“Yes, it’s snowing,” he said with certainty, glad that the young one seemed to be calm again at last. “Silly little Snabokh,” he said, calling Mithedhel after his other father, with what would pass for tenderness here, although the set of his face wasn’t so far removed from a snarl. Mithedhel began to drift off to sleep again, happy to know what he was dreaming of, and what it meant. _Elves playing in the snow._

From nowhere, he remembered something Maglor had once told him about dreams, and he smiled to remember it now, his waking mind almost gone. _Some would say they are telling you the truth_.

And those kinds of dreams filled the world. While Mithedhel dreamed of snow, ‘Athân dreamed of being close to his elven father. Maglor and Legolas shared a waking dream of freedom. Sauron, however, had nightmares. He dreamed of losing, of never finding the ring, and before too much time had passed, he rose from his bed to stare into the Palantír again, looking for something. And when he became frustrated and angry – he was alone.


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The woods weren’t as large as they at first appeared, and it seemed that they grew on a rare plateau just below the mountains. The land began to slope downwards steeply just as the trees thinned out, until they found themselves at the bottom of the first hills that led upwards into the westernmost peaks of the Ered Lithui.

Maglor found it distressing to realise just how much he had forgotten. He simply didn’t remember Middle-Earth, and he had no idea which direction to go. Luckily, Legolas had not been a captive for as long, and he began to lead them in a straight north-western line, explaining that in time they would hit the river Anduin. All they needed to do was follow it and they would come upon Lothlórien, and then, eventually, northern Greenwood.

But all that was a long way off, and in the meantime there were other things to be done. Before leaving the trees they took enough wood to make three or four bows and plenty of arrows. They made themselves cloaks out of leaves and grasses from the flatlands. It wasn’t much, but it was the best they could do. And it was more than to be expected from the inhospitable land around the edge of Mordor.

Their relationship was a true pleasure, although in the darkness of the watch at night, Maglor began to hunger for something else. Something different. He tried to shake the feeling off, but it stubbornly refused to budge, and when the first dreams of Sauron came to him in his sleep, he was not entirely surprised. Often, he dreamed of the dark lord coming upon him when he was on watch, and yet as much as he wanted it to, nothing really happened in those dreams. He even dreamed of the wolf once, and that at last scared him. The dreams were so real that Maglor couldn’t say for certain they were not, and for the first time he considered that he and Legolas should split up, and continue their ways seperately.

Not only might he be a danger to the young Prince if Sauron was indeed following them, but there was also the fact that Maglor didn’t really know what to do with himself now. Freedom, he was finding, required more than just a jubilant cry of happiness. He needed to decide what to do. Should he try and settle somewhere? And if he did, was Greenwood the place to do it? At times he considered something that made him want to weep. He thought of making his way into the west of Middle-Earth and finally building a boat to carry him across the sea. West was a direction he understood. He would be drowned or allowed home, and after all of these centuries, the chance of returning to Valinor was a call he couldn’t resist in his soul. It was a _pulling_.

But for now he kept all of his thoughts to himself. Legolas surely would not understand. He was excited to be returning home, despite all that had happened to him. Legolas was still young, and he would survive what had happened to him now that he was free. Maglor knew he would not understand the weariness that demanded a final resting place. He kept silent about the dreams too. What could they do but worry Legolas? And he didn’t want to talk about them for a deeper reason. Maglor secretly treasured them – every single one.

* * *

He came awake the next night to the feeling of something wet moving restlessly on his neck, and when he opened his eyes he wished he hadn’t. He drew in a breath to scream, but the giant wolf that stood over him lifted its head and growled menacingly, the yellow of its eyes burning bright in the darkness so that Maglor froze.

It stood over him as it might stand over a kill, and when Maglor remained quiet it resumed it previous activity. It sniffed and nuzzled at him, paying particular attention to his neck as his mind screamed at him. He raised his arm instinctively when it tried to lick his face, and soon his found himself staring into its too-intelligent eyes, his arm held in the grip of its teeth, just tight enough to hurt him. But the wolf didn’t draw blood. It let him go, and Maglor’s arm fell lifelessly back to the ground beside him as the wolf licked at him, at his face, his lips, his ears…

He sighed at that, and the wolf stopped to look at him again. It was too intelligent. “If you’re going to kill me, why don’t you do it?” Maglor hissed, and the wolf’s eyes narrowed as if it understood the words. But then it lost interest and instead lay down, draped over him like some expensive blanket. It stayed there, with its head resting on his chest, while its yellow eyes moved around the clearing, watching, and then they closed. Its breathing became slower and at last Maglor dared to move.

“Legolas,” he whispered urgently, as he reached out for one of the crude, but lethal wooden bows they had made while fleeing. He needed Legolas to wake up and kill it… before it killed him. He froze again when he heard the wolf. It growled warningly and he looked at it. One of its eyes was open and watching him. Very slowly, Maglor pulled his arm back and still the wolf growled. Maglor swallowed. It continued growling, a low rumble deep in its chest as Maglor put out his hand to it.

Then he was touching it. Its fur was soft and warm, and he stroked it lightly, finally letting his hand come to a rest on the back of the wolf as it lay on him. The growling stopped, and the wolf closed its eyes again. Maglor lay still, in complete silence this time, in awe that it had not killed him. At least, not yet. It slept, and he couldn’t move from beneath it. Did an hour pass? Nothing changed, and at last Maglor drifted back into sleep.

The wolf stayed the entire night, and nothing disturbed the elves again in that time. So it kept its place, the place it wanted to be. Maglor’s arm still rested over its back, and in turn the wolf’s giant paw held Maglor’s other arm down to the ground as he slept. From the look of them, it would be difficult to say who belonged to who. Perhaps they belonged to each other. But when dawn broke over the clearing – the wolf was gone. When Maglor awoke he conceded to himself that he recognised the wolf from his dream, and he began to plan a way to let Legolas carry on alone.

* * *

This was a quiet time. Second watch. It was still pitch black, the new moon made the nights darker, but soon the first grey and blue of early morning would light the sky. It had been a few weeks since they emerged from the secret labyrinth that lay underneath Mordor, and Spring was fully upon them. It was not so cold now, but there was still enough of a chill in the air that Maglor’s breath fogged in front of him.

He rubbed his arms briskly and walked to and fro for a few paces before the fire, trying to get a little warmer. Cold could make you less alert in exactly the same way as warmth. He was concentrating so much on his body temperature that he didn’t hear the approach of a dark figure, and his eyes didn’t note the blackness that moved through the dark, but he did feel the change when a warm presence came to stand behind him. One large, warm hand covered his mouth before he could cry out, and the whispered hush made his skin tingle in awareness. Sauron.

Strange how when even the cold couldn’t make him shiver, his Master’s touch could. Sauron moved his hair aside and lips danced lightly over the soft skin behind his ear. Sauron’s warm breath there made a delicious tingle run the length of Maglor spine so that he moaned behind the hand that covered his mouth.

“Do you miss me?” he whispered wickedly, and Maglor leaned back against him in answer, closing his eyes. The hand left his mouth so that he could reply as Sauron embraced him from behind.

“Yes!” he replied in a heartfelt hiss, aware of the need not to wake Legolas. If he awoke, then Sauron would be gone, and Maglor wanted him to stay. One of Sauron’s hands slid under the layers of his clothes to rest heavily on his stomach, the other was raised to his lips again, and Maglor didn’t think twice about accepting one of Sauron’s fingers into his mouth. His heart leapt at this chance to please Sauron again, and his experienced tongue caressed the dark lord’s finger as he drew it deeper inside, wanting to show that he was willing. Everything else ceased to exist except what he was doing, and when he heard Sauron moan behind him, Maglor felt the sound in his groin.

All he wanted now was for his Master to touch him there, and when the hand left his stomach, and he felt the back of Sauron’s hand brush lightly over the hardness in his breeches, Maglor whimpered around the finger in his mouth. He moved forward quickly to prolong the touch, but Sauron pulled him back, the hand once more resting on his stomach.

“You are tempting me, _mûl vain nín_ ,” he murmured now, his voice heavy and ragged. He pulled his hand away from Maglor’s mouth, and he couldn’t help moaning a little in regret. “What do you want most of all?” Sauron asked huskily. He forced his hand down the back of Maglor breeches so that he could slip the hand between his buttocks and slide his wetted finger over Maglor’s entrance. Maglor spread his legs a little to make it easier, his breath coming in short gasps, needing to feel Sauron’s finger inside him. Wanting more than that but afraid to voice it for fear it would all be taken away. The finger continued to tease him slowly, never quite entering him even when he pushed back against it wantonly. “Do you want this?” Sauron breathed.

“Please, I want _you_ ,” Maglor begged shamelessly. “ _Herdir_.” Oh! It seemed too long since he was last able to call Sauron that. In answer the finger entered him at last, and Maglor groaned in pleasure, pushing back, not caring that Sauron would feel how he still prepared himself for this. “Let me please you again.” Truly, that was all he wanted, for his Master to find pleasure in him again, to use him as he was meant to be used.

Sauron growled in pleasure. “Oh, _mûl vain nín_ , somehow I knew you would,” he said in a low, amused voice, referring to the easy way he could touch Maglor like this. Suddenly the finger left him, and Sauron pulled Maglor back against his body so that he could feel the dark lord’s hardness against him. Maglor gasped, and rubbed himself against Sauron in pure desire. “But if I take you now,” Sauron warned. “I will take you back with me. You understand that, don’t you?” He matched Maglor’s movements, and thrust against him lightly so that Maglor moaned again.

“Yes,” he said fervently. “Take me back.” Was he really asking for Sauron to allow him to return? It sounded that way, and Maglor felt a little afraid for the first time, aware how much of a slave he still was to the dark lord.

“Didn’t you want to escape?” Sauron whispered, almost seeming to taunt him, thrusting again. “To be free?”

“I am not free,” Maglor replied, suddenly seeing it. It took more than distance to be released from this. It would take time. And just maybe he would never be completely free.

“Not yet, no,” Sauron stopped moving, holding Maglor’s hips so that he was still against that heat and hardness. “But soon you will be beyond my reach.” There was such a sound of regret and dismay in his voice that Maglor wanted to turn around and look into Sauron’s eyes, but he was held still.

“No…” he moaned, shaking his head, wishing that the choice were his. It wasn’t, and somehow he knew that Sauron would leave him here. Sauron wouldn’t take him back to Barad-dûr now.

“I will make you two promises, Maglor Fëanorion.” Those lips moved behind his ear again, and again Maglor trembled on his feet, wanting to fall into Sauron’s arms.

“If you ever return to me,” he began in a low, threatening tone. “I will make you so sorry for running away, _mûl nín_ , that the crimes you committed for the sake of gaining the Silmarils will fade into nothing.” It was a serious threat. Maglor’s mind gave him an image of all the punishments Sauron would inflict on him for daring to escape, and it should have curbed his desire, but it didn’t. He wanted that just as much, because it would please Sauron to hurt him. The dark lord took hold of one of Maglor’s hands, running his thumb over the fingers in such a way that Maglor knew Sauron could break them. He whimpered, but he didn’t pull his hand away.

“Yes, _Hîr nín_ ,” he said, unable to disguise his longing, so that Sauron chuckled at his reaction to the threat. He raised the hand he still held, and instead of crushing Maglor fingers, he kissed the back of his hand softly.

“But I miss you too,” he said quietly, “and I will be happy to welcome you home.” Maglor hardly dared breathe when he felt Sauron’s lips and tongue moving down over one of his fingers, drawing it into the dark lord’s hot mouth. His legs refused to support him, and the arm around his waist tightened to take his weight as Sauron sucked lightly on Maglor’s finger. It was clear what he meant – such a promise! – and Maglor wondered how long this would continue. He wondered how long he could hold his breath. Those lips moved down again, taking the length of his finger into Sauron’s mouth, and then as he drew his lips up, Maglor felt the lightest scrape of the dark lord’s teeth on his skin, and he let out his breath at last in a long low moan at the thought of what Sauron was saying to him, what the promise was. He felt Sauron’s tongue swirl around the length of his finger, and he imagined he could feel it somewhere else too. He jerked in Sauron’s grip as the feeling travelled down, turning to jolts of pleasure along the way that made his cock throb in answer. But he needed something still – he wasn’t free.

“Please,” he whimpered, his need a craving as desperate as thirst or hunger. Sauron’s held Maglor’s finger a moment longer – sucking. Then he let go, lavishing one last kiss on the wet skin.

“Yes,” he whispered, and Maglor felt his world shatter as his orgasm claimed him at the word. He was sure he was falling, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he had permission, and he gave in to it gladly.

When he returned to reality, he found himself lying on the cold ground – alone. He looked around him quickly, feeling bereft when he realised that Sauron was gone. Had he ever been here? The light was already turning the sky a deep blue, and he knew he must have fallen asleep on watch. He sighed and sat up, shaking his head to clear his mind of the dream, and then he saw it. Maglor jumped in shock. He reached down to his tunic and picked from it a single, long, black hair. These were not dreams, then. He looked over at Legolas who lay in peaceful sleep a safe distance away from the fire. Then he looked back at what he held in his hand. He realised belatedly that one of his fingers was cold. It was wet. Maglor groaned, thinking of the promise. He licked at his own finger until nothing of Sauron could remain there. Once more he had the thought, and now it was imperative. For safety’s sake, he and Legolas had to separate.

All through the next day, Maglor thought long and hard about what he should do. It was clear now that Sauron was following them, that Sauron was following _him_. He imagined coming clean, and telling the truth, and he knew that would not be the end of it. Legolas would be certain that they should stay together. He was looking forward to the welcome home, and he assured Maglor over and over again that he would receive a welcome just as warm. Maglor wasn’t so sure about that, but he let Legolas believe it as long as it made him happy.

The land they travelled was bare and featureless. Perhaps it was a mercy after all his time in Mordor. Although Maglor had enjoyed seeing the trees, he had been a little glad when the wood ended. It had been almost too much for his senses after such a long time away. This, while it might be flat and boring, and occasionally marshy if they wandered too far west, was easier for him to deal with.

He scanned the horizon, and there was nothing to see. There were the mountains if he looked behind them, and they served as an uncomfortable reminder of just how far away Barad-Dûr was. Was Sauron there? Or was the wolf silently tracking them even now? He couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean the wolf wasn’t out there, somewhere.

When evening fell and they made camp, Maglor’s thoughts came to a startling conclusion. He looked at Legolas and considered it. It would work, but was it too cruel? Maglor knew it was probably the only way he could lose Legolas now. It would have to be so. Legolas would carry on alone, and he would escape. Any other course of action and Maglor could very well see Legolas refusing to accept the truth or the danger. They were lucky the wolf hadn’t killed him so far. Even Maglor was lucky come to that.

“What is it?” Legolas asked, a shy smile on his lips, noticing Maglor’s stare. Maglor made up his mind, and he apologised silently in advance for what he was about to do. Without saying a word he moved to kneel behind Legolas where he was sitting on the ground and began to massage his shoulders.

“I’m glad you’re free,” he said in answer, and it seemed Legolas didn’t catch the slip in his words because he moaned in pleasure as Maglor’s skilled hands went to work on his tense muscles, and closed his eyes. Although they were already lovers, Maglor decided that this evening should be more like a seduction. It eased his own mind to treat it as such, and by the time he was to take the Prince, he would make certain that Legolas was ready to beg for him.

Maglor took his time with the massage, using the oil they had brought with them when they left to help him. He drew it out, easing every single knot from Legolas’ muscles. He guided Legolas to lay down flat on his stomach, and then proceeded to knead and caress his entire body. At times Legolas would moan beneath his ministrations, and Maglor smiled tenderly, wanting Legolas to feel something he would never forget, despite what the night would bring.

He ended the massage with a series of firm strokes down Legolas’ body, remembering how it had felt for Sauron to do this for him, and he noted the way Legolas relaxed completely into his touch, his flesh pliable and soft. He listened to Legolas’ breathing, slow and steady. Maglor leaned over the Prince on his hands and knees, and moved down, greedily drinking in the sight of Legolas’ body. The smooth white skin of his back, the firm, round buttocks, his muscled thighs and shapely legs. Only when he reached Legolas’ feet though, did Maglor touch. He began by kissing his lover’s toes, one by one, smiling when he realised that Legolas was so relaxed he didn’t try to move his sensitive feet away from the teasing touch. He brushed his lips over Legolas’ instep, and then placed a bracelet of kisses around his ankle. Legolas sighed, while Maglor smiled and repeated the same actions with his other foot.

He moved up Legolas’ calf, and then licked lightly at the soft skin behind his knee, laughing against the flesh when Legolas let out a surprised squeak. Again, he repeated the actions, and then moved up still further, using his fingers now to tease Legolas’ inner thighs so that he opened his legs. Maglor avoided the obvious, and instead set to placing gentle kisses on the back of Legolas’ upper thighs, happy when he heard the Prince moan.

He rested his hands on Legolas’ buttocks and squeezed lightly, dipping his head at the same time and using his tongue to brush against the back of his balls, and then licking up in a line, over the place where his prostate ought to be, and then up further, teasing his opening so briefly that Legolas moved beneath him, trying to make the touch last. He laughed again, and took his weight on his hands again, now beginning to kiss the soft globes of flesh he had been lightly massaging. He moved up further still, and then quite suddenly licked a firm line up the lower part of Legolas’ spine.

“Stay,” he warned quietly, when Legolas would have turned over. He remained motionless until Legolas flopped back down on the ground and sighed. Maglor smiled and continued to show his appreciation for the body beneath him, nipping lightly with his teeth at the left side of Legolas’ waist in a series of small bites.

Moving quickly, he settled astride Legolas and then pulled his left arm up behind him, letting his fingernails drag up the length of his arm to from his shoulder to his wrist. He held Legolas’ hand in his, keeping the palm exposed, and then ran his tongue lightly over the top of his palm, just beneath his fingers. He let one of his fingers dance in small circles over the palm of his hand while with his teeth he pulled gently at the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. He let Legolas’ arm back down to the ground finally after moving his lips down over the inside of his wrist so that he ended with kissing the inside of Legolas’ elbow. He sat up a little straighter.

“Now,” he said quietly. “I’m going to do all that to you again, only on this side.” He leaned down to begin the little bites, this time on the right side of Legolas’ waist, and he couldn’t help but giggle when he heard a slightly frustrated, dismayed moan from Legolas.

When he had fulfilled his promise, Maglor brushed the long, golden hair away from the nape of Legolas’ neck and kissed him there, before encouraging him to turn over onto his back. He held Legolas’ wrists to the ground when he would have reached up to touch, and shook his head slightly. Legolas sighed a little petulantly and closed his eyes, and Maglor took that opportunity to kiss his eyelids. He took in the sight of the Prince like this, wanting to imprint it on his mind forever. His golden hair was spread out around his face, his long eyelashes fluttered while he waited for the next thing Maglor did. The light had faded more, and so now he looked ethereal in the dusk, with the firelight casting delicious shadows on his skin, and accentuating the highlights in his hair. The light shone on his moist lips, making them glisten, even as the approaching dark made them a deeper red. It was a perfect moment.

_I love you_ , Maglor thought. He had never said it, and he wanted to now more than at any other time, but still he found it difficult. Why? It wasn’t as if Legolas didn’t know. Would it change anything? It seemed the entire world was conspiring to make him say it out loud, and Maglor couldn’t help himself. “I –” Maglor began, but then stopped when Legolas opened his eyes. They looked at each other, and the moment still wasn’t over. Maglor licked his lips. _Say it_! Legolas lay beneath him, he still held the other elf’s wrists to the ground – _he was beautiful_.

“What is it?” Legolas asked a little uncertainly, and the spell was broken. Maglor smiled, feeling relieved even though he hadn’t said the words. Something important had passed him by, but it didn’t matter. Nothing had changed. He shook his head, and satisfied himself with showing Legolas what he had been about to say as he leaned down and covered Legolas’ lips with his own.

He resumed the slow lovemaking, covering every inch of Legolas’ body with kisses, worshipping him with his lips, trying to remember everything. He traced the curving of his lover’s ribs with his fingertips, and circled the dusky nipples with his tongue before biting at them so lightly it must feel like kisses. He rested his hand on Legolas’ midriff while he followed the curve of Legolas’ hip with his tongue. He wanted to taste everything he had to offer, and keep it with him. When he finally reached Legolas’ cock, he didn’t spend too long there, just long enough to feel Legolas begin to stir at his touch. Instead, he continued moving down slowly; finding all the secret places that made Legolas moan for him, and relishing the sounds he made.

When he reached Legolas’ toes again, he once more kissed each one, and then took hold of the oil again. While Legolas watched he spilled some onto his fingers, and then moved to sit beside him, reaching between Legolas’ parted thighs to rub the oil over his entrance. Legolas’ eyes darkened, and his breathing quickened, knowing at last that the time had come. He was so relaxed now that it was easy for Maglor to slip a finger inside him. Legolas moaned and pushed against him wantonly. But that wasn’t enough. Maglor leaned over again, and licked at Legolas’ cock, satisfied when he hardened immediately at the delicate touch. He didn’t tease any longer, but took Legolas’ hardness into his mouth while he spread the oil within him.

Using two fingers now, he allowed Legolas to buck up when he brushed against his prostate, relaxing his throat and swallowing the head of his lover’s erection. He kept his face close to Legolas and swallowed a few times, rhythmically, before letting him go so that he could rub his tongue over the underside of Legolas’ cock right up to the glans.

When he felt Legolas twitch inside his mouth, he stopped everything suddenly, making Legolas cry out loudly in denied need. He was ready. At the thought of what he had to do, Maglor almost hoped that he wouldn’t be able to go through with it, but seeing Legolas so needy and desperate for him had already made him hard, and Maglor covered his own length with the oil before lying atop Legolas. He pushed one of Legolas’ long legs over his shoulder, turning his head to place a gentle kiss on his thigh.

“Please,” Legolas moaned with his eyes closed again, moving his hips forward to try and impale himself on Maglor’s erection.

“You don’t have to beg me, Legolas,” Maglor replied and slid inside easily so that they both gave a satisfied sigh. He held still for a moment, allowing Legolas to adjust, and then set a gentle rhythm, almost rocking. He would never know this again. Maglor closed his own eyes and concentrated on the way Legolas felt around him, accepting and moving with him, so hot and perfect. He felt every contraction of the flesh around him, and then opened his eyes again so that he could take Legolas in hand firmly. Legolas arched up into his hand, taking Maglor inside him to the hilt at the same time. He gasped as Maglor began to move his hand too, matching the rhythm to his lovemaking so perfectly that Legolas cried out.

It didn’t last much longer after that. Maglor stopped thrusting when Legolas began to orgasm, milking him of every drop before moving up his body and holding his arms to the ground again. Legolas looked up at him in complete trust, and Maglor felt sure he couldn’t do it. But then he thought of the boy he had seduced before, and he remembered the wolf. He began taking Legolas again, feeling his orgasm approach, and as he came he leaned down to whisper into Legolas’ ear.

“Beautiful,” he breathed. He came inside Legolas, but he was aware of how still his lover had become beneath him. He groaned with his release, letting Legolas hear that too, making his last few movements a little more selfish, a little more violent. He lay for a while with his head pressed close to Legolas’ neck, not wanting to look and see what he had done yet. There was always the chance that Sauron hadn’t used the word on him, but Maglor didn’t see why he wouldn’t have. He composed himself and used his grip on Legolas’ wrists to raise himself up.

The look on Legolas’ face was something he _didn’t_ want to remember, but he knew it would be there along with everything else. The moment when Maglor hurt him. He knew that whatever happened now wouldn’t matter. Nothing he could do or say now would ever take this back. Legolas looked at him for a minute in hurt confusion, and then he began to fight. He tried to throw Maglor off him, and struggled desperately to free his arms from Maglor’s grip. When he eventually realised that he couldn’t dislodge the other elf, he stopped in defeat.

“Why?” he asked, all of his pain there in his voice. “Why did you say that word?” Nothing would ever take it back. Maglor knew that, knew that he had wounded Legolas, and still he couldn’t let up. He plastered a smile on his face.

“Doesn’t it work for you?” he asked nastily. “It works for me.” He moved against Legolas again, feeling his softened sex move inside him suggestively. Legolas moaned at the same time as he cried out in anguish.

“Why are you hurting me?” he said then, still not giving up. Maglor pulled out suddenly and let Legolas go, standing over him coldly, wishing that his legs wouldn’t feel so shaky.

“Why don’t you run away from me?” he challenged, watching Legolas as he pushed himself back, away from Maglor’s feet. He drew his knees into his chest and hugged himself like a child, shaking with threatened tears at what Maglor had done to him.

“I never will,” he said quietly, refusing to believe in what had happened between them. Maglor sighed heavily, and crumpled to the ground in defeat. It hadn’t worked! The young one still wanted to stay with him. He had hurt Legolas for nothing, and Maglor hated himself more than ever. He looked over at Legolas, and Maglor realised again just how young he was. He looked so innocent and vulnerable, despite everything. Maglor decided to try a version of the truth.

“You want to go home, don’t you?” he asked gently, with sympathy. Legolas looked at him and Maglor knew that all he had to do was ask, and forgiveness would be his. Again, the words came to his mind from earlier. _I love you_.

“Yes,” Legolas admitted at last, turning his gaze away to stare miserably at the fire. The time for the words had passed earlier, and saying them would make no difference now, Maglor realised.

“So do I, _pen neth,_ ,” he said meaningfully. “So do I. I’m so very tired.” As he spoke, Maglor felt the truth of his words, and he shivered wearily. It had been so long since he had left his home; he had been away for an eternity. “Time is never short, but still it stretches too thinly over me now. It becomes _old_.” He was aware of Legolas watching him speak, and he had to continue.

“No,” Legolas denied his words, but he must know it was hopeless.

“There is nothing left for me to do here, Legolas. I’ve played my part,” he sighed, “such as it was. You must go on alone.” He held his face in his hands, and he gasped when he felt Legolas touching him, pulling his hands from his face to look at him. The tears still threatened to fall, but there was acceptance there that Maglor didn’t deserve.

“I understand.” Maglor wanted to say that he didn’t, but what use would it be? He ached to tell Legolas of the dreams, and to say sorry for hurting him in such a way, but he knew that if he did Legolas would refuse to leave him alone. He kept silent as the Prince dressed and divided up their belongings. “I _will_ see you again,” Legolas said in surety, kneeling down in front of Maglor and managing to smile a little. Maglor reached out to caress his face.

“In time, yes,” he said, not stopping Legolas when he drew back and stood up. He let his hand fall back down. It was night, but Legolas would not stay with him now. This was the time for them to separate. Maglor had engineered it, but he still didn’t want it, not really. He watched as Legolas backed away from him, and he remained silent. Maglor didn’t want take away his freedom.

“Time,” Legolas mused, and smiled secretly. “It gets old, you say? Not yet.” He shook his head. “Not for me!” Maglor was surprised when Legolas came back to him and kissed him passionately, and he couldn’t help but respond to it. Once more, the words rang in his mind. The kiss ended, and still Maglor didn’t speak.

I’ll never forget you,” Legolas vowed seriously. “Watch for me?” Maglor smiled earnestly.

“I’ll be looking for you, _pen neth_ ,” he said with a kind of gladness. “If I give you a promise now, will you keep it?”

Legolas laughed at his choice of words and played along, making their final words something to remember, something that could almost be poetry. “Until time grows old,” he said with a little bow.

“Then I promise you’ll see me again.” It didn’t feel like a lie, and Maglor took heart from it. Whatever happened, they would meet again, he was sure of it.

He watched Legolas until he couldn’t make him out in the dark. He would survive alone, and he would reach home. Maglor remained on watch for a while, and then supposed that whatever happened to him would just have to happen. He rested, and in the morning, his sleep had been dreamless.   



	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Twenty-Four

No dreams. The next day, when Maglor awoke alone, he felt unaccountably cold. He roused himself, kicked dirt over the remains of the fire, and gathered the few things that Legolas had left with him. He faced the cold, grey morning and the world already defeated. He stood for long minutes looking in the direction he must go, in the direction he _should_ go. For the first time in thousands of years, his fate belonged to him, or so he thought, and it wasn’t a welcome change. It must be a change for the better though. His mind reminded him that every step he took would be a step closer to home, closer to leaving behind all the nightmares and once more being himself. Yet he didn’t move.

He didn’t understand his feelings. After everything, he had gained his freedom! But instead of the joy he expected to feel at the thought, he was dispirited and lonely. Even in the loneliest days of his imprisonment in Barad-Dûr, his life had been determined, his suffering measured and his reactions expected. His loneliness there had been engineered; it wasn’t like this crushing emptiness. There wasn’t a thing Sauron had done to him that made him fear like this. The possibility for good and evil was terrifying, and suddenly he appreciated just how structured his existence had been before. Maglor found that freedom meant responsibility, and it had been so long that he couldn’t be comfortable with the thought, especially considering what that very freedom had led to before.

He stood still for long minutes, with his back to the sunrise, and eventually he realised he wasn’t going to do it. He couldn’t take one step in that direction, even though his heart and soul demanded it. There was no guarantee that he was forgiven, even after all this time, and Maglor dreaded the refusal so much that he couldn’t bring himself to step forward, and to ask. What did that leave? Maglor turned back towards the distant mountains, and everything in him screamed against it, but it was inevitable. Slowly, hating himself for every step, Maglor began walking back.

When night fell he found himself at the same place he and Legolas had camped the night before last. He remembered Sauron then, and a more familiar, welcoming fear rippled through him. He denied it, even to himself, his consciousness insisting that he hoped he wasn’t disturbed, but in truth he desperately desired for Sauron to do what he had threatened before, and take him back.

He sat on a rock, not bothering to light a fire or to eat, and stayed there until the twilight deepened into night and he couldn’t see into the empty dark. He finally admitted he was waiting when the stars began to fade with the approaching dawn. He stood and walked forward, then he held his arms out in supplication.

“Please, _Herdir_. Are you out there?” That was a silly question, wasn’t it? Of course he was. But then Maglor drew in a shocked breath, and considered for the first time something unthinkable. What if Sauron had been following Legolas all this time? What reason would he have for such a thing? Suddenly the need to see Sauron became much more important than it already was, and Maglor voice was strained when he spoke. “Please, speak to me.” He fell to his knees. “Please…” He was begging a merciless being, but Maglor only wanted one thing. “Take me back.” _Forgive me_. There was no answer.

Faced by the silence, Maglor despaired. He didn’t want this anymore! He only wanted to be back in his place, the place Sauron had given him. Nothing else mattered. Not freedom, not home, not forgiveness, and not choice. Endless, impossible choice. Maglor did the one thing that might make Sauron pay attention to him again, the one thing he knew how to do, and the one thing he probably shouldn’t do considering what this was. Maglor began to sing.

* * *

Sauron stood tall and unmoving in the darkness. He was naked, having come forward from the form of the wolf, but there were none to see him. Still as a statue, he stood and listened to the song that carried through the still night air. Maglor was singing for him.

A smile of true pleasure curved his lips as the song continued, every phrase and every turn of the melody expressive of Maglor’s love for Sauron, and for the dark things they did. It wasn’t natural, and it wasn’t meant to be, but it was the most beautiful thing Sauron had ever heard. It really was an unexpected surprise, and Sauron treasured every single line of the lament, savouring Maglor’s longing and dedication.

He listened carefully until the last poignant notes disappeared, watching the lonely figure through the lightening gloom. He was seized by the sudden desperate need to take what was his, and he almost gave in to it, seeing Maglor beneath him in his mind’s eye so clearly that he almost moaned. He remembered what he had done a few nights ago, and he knew that temptation was something that could ruin even his plans. But he wanted more than this from Maglor, much more.

The elf was still a prisoner, still trapped by the games Sauron had used on his mind, and he wanted something much more important. When Maglor came back of his own free will, although everything would appear the same, everything would be subtly different. When Maglor returned he would still be a slave, but he would no longer be a captive, he would be a companion. In time, he might even become an accomplice. Oh, there was a world of difference. And yet… there was the slightest doubt. Truly, Maglor would be beyond his reach soon, and he had no say then in what happened. What if he did sail, despite everything? What if he was wrong about some things? Could he be wrong about _their_ reaction?

Just as he was pondering the likelihood of a mistake, Maglor saw him. Sauron stood still, watching his slave’s eyes, knowing every thought in his mind, but for a moment struck by the need to possess him. Once, centuries ago, when the elf was newly broken, Sauron had been surprised that the desire didn’t wane. But it didn’t. It was still there, and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to simply take what was offered. Despite everything he had done to the elf, every subversive need he had implanted in his mind, every warped desire he had given to Maglor, something still called to him. There was no resistance anymore, and so that wasn’t it. Maybe it was his beauty. But there were many beautiful things in Arda, and Sauron didn’t feel the need to possess them. Even Legolas had been easy to let go.

Maglor walked uncertainly forward, encouraged by Sauron’s silence, and sank to his knees without saying a word. Was this it? Maglor was so very moulded to his every wish and desire that his actions could be predicted, but that didn’t make them uninteresting. Quite the opposite. Sauron was many things, but he was not ignorant, and he likened Maglor at this moment to a favourite book. No matter how well you knew every action and every piece of dialogue, you were never unhappy to read it. Or perhaps it was the very history they shared? As if the elf’s mind and soul were a sculpture and his reactions were a reflection of that. Sauron could trace every line and curve, and remember what had helped to shape this part or that.

The elf looked up, made unsure by his Master’s silence and stillness, and even that was a pleasure to behold. But there was an imperfection there. Sauron looked down at Maglor, searching for it, and saw it again. Hope. It was something Sauron couldn’t take from him; it was something that would have to play out without him. All he could do was ready Maglor for the confrontation in such a way that the outcome would be in his favour. All these changes and dependencies were unacceptable to _them_. He had to chance that Maglor would not want to let them go.

But he considered that imperfection now, saw it shining with the elf, and Sauron became coldly angry. Maglor was not asking to return because it was his will, he was treating this as an escape. Despite his annoyance, Sauron smirked a little at the idea that Barad-Dûr could be considered a place to hide by anyone. This was not what he wanted. Still, he desired, and he commanded Maglor to rise to his feet with a single sharp backwards tilt of his head.

When the elf stood before him, Sauron found his hands naturally reaching around to cup the elf’s buttocks and draw Maglor close to him. His slave stood on tiptoe to wind his arms around Sauron’s neck just at the perfect time for Sauron to lean forward and kiss his neck. He inhaled the familiar scent, enough of the wolf remaining that the action made him want to be violent. The kiss turned into a bite, and Maglor moaned, tilting his head to one side to make it easier. Even in imperfection, he was bewitching. Sauron drew back, and became transfixed by the sight of Maglor’s lips. The elf trembled in his arms, and for a single moment he was completely irresistible.

They kissed, the elf opening up to his questing tongue and surrendering before him so perfectly that Sauron forgot where they were and closed his eyes in pleasure, groaning into Maglor’s open mouth in appreciation. Every response was perfect, every sound, every movement. Until he felt the imperfection again. There it was, behind the kiss, beneath the submission, something that should be eagerness was reticence. Barely noticable except to someone who knew Maglor as well as he knew himself, and it wasn’t enough. Sauron drew back, Maglor moaned longingly as the slight movement disturbed the easy way they had rested against one another, and Sauron’s hardness nudged his.

Slowly, Sauron ran his hands up over Maglor, making the elf shiver in his arms. He covered well known territory, bringing all the secrets of Maglor’s body to mind again as he did so, until he had his hands on the elf’s upper arms where they were raised up to encircle him. And then, very slowly, he dislodged his hands and pushed the elf away from him.

“ _Hîr nín_?” asked Maglor cautiously, his eyes expressive of hurt the way they had been before Sauron so many times. But this wasn’t a new lesson he wanted to teach, this had to be an ending.

“I will not accept you back like this, Maglor.” He saw the hurt but carried on, determined to make the elf face his past, and embrace his future. “If you return to Barad-Dûr, you will die. My servants have been instructed to kill you on sight just as they would any other.” Maglor shook his head. It was clear he was trying to understand what he was supposed to learn.

“Please, _Herdir_.” Maglor reached out towards him, and Sauron didn’t even think twice. He lashed out at the elf, catching him on the jaw, and watching in satisfaction as he fell heavily onto the hard ground. Sauron walked to stand over him.

“I suggest you make sure you are far away from here by daybreak,” he said coldly, and then kicked Maglor hard in the stomach, so that he doubled over, wheezing and throwing his arms around himself to protect his body from any more as he tried to move back from the dark lord’s feet.

Advancing, Sauron kicked him again, viciously, only closing his eyes briefly when he heard Maglor begin to sob. Losing patience then, he dragged Maglor up so that they were at eye level. “Are you stupid?” he hissed. “Run away from me!” He threw Maglor back down to the ground, fully intending to carry on kicking him, and Sauron achieved with Maglor what the elf hadn’t been able to achieve with Legolas the night before. He made his lover flee from him into the night.

* * *

Maglor ran until the sun was high in the sky, and he was exhausted. His lack of sleep made him sink into a heap on the ground, and he looked towards the mountains for a few minutes. He thought he could see the suggestion of Barad-Dûr beyond them, but that was probably his imagination. He rested until he felt able to move again, remembering what Sauron had said.

Maglor turned away from Barad-Dûr, admitting for the first time how utterly lost he felt without Sauron to command and to guide him. His fate, it seemed, was in his own hands for the first time in thousands of years, and he simply didn’t know what to do with it.

He considered what he had said to Legolas, and when he thought of Valinor he felt a homesickness he had never experienced while in Sauron’s thrall. Now, the chance of returning home was possible, and his heart begged him to do it. He would return to the western shore, at least. Finally making his mind up, Maglor wasted no more time. He began to walk.

It took weeks to cross to the western edge of Middle-Earth. Maglor travelled at night, keeping clear of strangers on the road, and speaking to no-one. He stole or killed what he needed to survive, and after perhaps six weeks or so, when the second moon was full, he came upon the shore. He had been following a river, which opened into a great bay where it met the sea. He wondered even now if he had the nerve to try, and realised that after all this time he did.

Away from Sauron’s influence, and the need to endure his punishments, he found himself thinking clearly, and what he found was not what he expected. There was still guilt, but when Maglor looked back over his life, he considered that what happened to him could have happened to anyone. He didn’t take his crimes lightly, but he realised he understood the circumstances that had led to them, and he couldn’t continue to hate himself. He forgave himself, and in that, he found the courage to dare the anger of those who could grant him true forgiveness.

* * *

The dark lord gazed into the Palantír, searching for something. He spent long hours in this room, occupied with the same activity, but this time was different. A rare smile lit his features, a genuine smile, when he beheld what the swirling depths of the stone showed him.

_A lone elf worked on the beach. He was building a small boat. It was obvious he had laboured for long hours. It was not grand and intricate, like the ships the elves usually sailed in, but it was enough to carry him over the sea, that much was certain._

“Do you know how captivating you are? Feed all my desires to the end of time, and I’ll make this world a place for you to run from me.”

_The elf on the shore stopped for a moment. His long, red hair shone in the sun as he sat down and leaned back against a tree to rest for a while. Absently, he stroked his hand against the bark of the tree, and a fleeting look of lost sadness darkened his blue eyes even as he smiled._

“Yes, I see the beautiful scars that I have created, scars on your mind and your soul, and I can’t regret them. They make you love me, make you desire and obey me. All things I have come to expect from you, and yet knowing this does not diminish the need to possess you.”

_Letting his head fall back against the tree at last, he closed his eyes. It was a perfect vision of peace; he was so beautiful he looked as though he slept the sleep of the innocent. Although for him, nothing could be further from the truth._

“Where is your place but by my side? Would you truly leave me to sleep endlessly on the shores of Valinor? I can’t let you go, my beautiful slave, it’s no better than suicide. Elves! Do you think you will be able to rest when you dream of me so far away, where I can’t make your dreams and nightmares a reality?”

_Abruptly, the elf stood up. It seemed he couldn’t rest after all. He walked back to the beach and stood looking out to sea thoughtfully, with something in his eyes that could be called longing._

“When you think back, and I know you do, you feel that jewel in your hand again.”

_As if directed, he looked at his palm. He looked and it seemed he saw something else there. He closed his fist tightly and once more gazed out to the horizon._

“Do you really think they want you over there? Unforgiven, forgotten by all but me, and I believe as you once did – that you were right. You could be someone else, if you ever made the choice. And I would be with you forever.”

_Now he was back at his work. It was nearly done, and he stopped to sigh and shake his head. He mumbled something to himself._

“Why don’t you give in? Make the decision you made once before, and belong to me in truth. How many centuries will I need to convince you of who and what you are? Mine.”

* * *

Maglor went back to his work with a weary sigh. He had spent so long staring out to sea, praying for them to speak to him, so that he could ask for their forgiveness. He was beginning to believe that they would never answer. Perhaps in their eyes, he didn’t deserve anything more than ignorance. If he died trying to cross the sea, then so be it. He would find himself in Mandos, and would have to pay for his mistakes there. Eventually, one way or another, and however long it took, he would return home.

Then, so slowly he couldn’t say for sure when he first noticed it, he became aware of a quiet whispering. It was barely audible over the sound of the gentle waves that broke onto the sand a short distance away. The tide was fully in now, and Maglor closed his eyes to listen better, feeling a kind of peace steal over him when the whisperings became definite voices in his mind.

The voices were no louder though, and it gave Maglor the disturbing impression that it was _they_ who had been waiting for him to listen, rather than him listening for them to speak. He shook his head, trying to shake off the feeling, and listened.

_Makalaurë, we have been waiting for you… He hears us at last!… There is forgiveness in his heart… Yes, listen, and ask…_

In his mind a great image rose unbidden as he tried to formulate the words he wanted to say. That after all he had done, he was so desperately sorry for his crimes, that he took the responsibility for them upon himself, and that he wished only for peace in his soul. It seemed they didn’t need to hear his words to see his desire. But then, why should they? It was written on his heart and soul for them to see.

_You are tired… He wishes to rest… He wishes for forgiveness…Come home to us, Makalaurë…_

Maglor cried out in ecstasy as a vision came to him of home. After all this time! And he remembered it so well; every tree and leaf and blade of grass. But not well enough. He had forgotten how glorious it was, how perfect, how peaceful. Oh, so peaceful! He fell to his knees, and felt the warm sand beneath him as something else. He sank into cool, green grass. When he looked up he saw the perfect sky above him. Please, let me return, his soul begged.

_This was always yours… We waited for you… For you to hear us…For you to have mercy on your own heart…_

Maglor became confused, even in his happiness. There was an unspoken question in their words. As if commanded, his mind gave them the answer, and Maglor moaned in regret as the first thoughts of Sauron came to his mind. For a while he had completely forgotten about his time with the dark lord. Now everything came flooding back for their perusal. Every hour of every day of every year of every century. “Please,” he gasped. They couldn’t want to see all this, surely? They had seen it before… hadn’t they?

_So alone, Makalaurë… So lonely there… He hurts!… He suffers so!_

Maglor moaned as the visions continued. One after the other, until he was sure he must lose consciousness or go mad. And always, there was Sauron, taking pleasure from him in every way he could. Taking his body, tormenting his mind, playing with his emotions. “No more…” Maglor moaned helplessly beneath it all. For a moment the hope he had kept and treasured even during the darkest moments of his imprisonment shone in him, and then, quite suddenly, the visions stopped.

_How could you believe we required such a sacrifice?… We would not see this happen to you… We would take you as you were…We loved Makalaurë before…_

Maglor began to cry at this simple assurance, feeling the weight of his guilt lifted from him, and he only became aware of himself speaking after a few minutes. His lips moved without his knowledge, and he found himself thanking them over and over again. So relieved, and yet so sad. He felt their sympathy for him. They shared his pain.

_Makalaurë… Let us take these things away from you… They are too heavy for your soul… Forget what you have suffered…You were never meant to live through such things…_

In a part of himself, he recognised what they were trying to offer him, and he reached out with his soul and his heart to take it gladly, but his mind wasn’t in it. Maglor shivered in the throes of the vision he was being given, as he became conscious of something he already knew, but didn’t want to admit.

He really had been alone!

_There is no need to be alone anymore… Come back home… Allow us to heal you… We can take the pain away…_

There was no trick in their words, there was nothing hidden, but Maglor couldn’t reach out to them anymore. His mind circled around one thought, even when he was given the dream of Valinor again. He saw everything they promised, and still he couldn’t be rid of the hesitation. _I have been all alone_. He thought back over all his time with Sauron, and saw it all as it was. No one had been watching him. He saw himself caught in the web of some giant spider, and no one would have saved him from the monster. He had not only been left to die, he had been left to _that_. Forever.

He thought further, about what exactly they wanted him to forget, and Maglor had no use for the millennia he had spent as Sauron’s plaything. Or did he? Something in his heart demanded that he not let it go so easily, and he tried to understand why. He didn’t really love Sauron, did he? No, it wasn’t that. And he didn’t need those memories, did he? A little uncertainty. The memories themselves were painful, and useless, but it was what they meant. Maglor for the first time considered the fact that he had forgiven himself. What had led to it? And all of a sudden he knew. What he had endured at Sauron’s hands was so absolute. It was beyond any punishment he would have chosen for himself. They might not require the sacrifice, but he did. And he knew that were he to allow them to take away these experiences, they would fall silent to him anyway. He had to make a choice between his own forgiveness, and theirs. And if he chose theirs, nothing would change. He would still wander, unable to return home. Alone, forgotten, and unforgiven.

Suddenly Maglor saw it in all its perfection; he saw the trap Sauron had set for them all. He couldn’t afford to let his past go; and as their voices began again, Maglor silenced them with a single, thundering shout. “No!”

Maglor collapsed fully onto the ground, sobbing. Slowly, the outside world came back. He realised he was lying on the warm sand in the heated caress of the sun. The voices had gone; all that remained was the sound of the sea, and the whispering of the waves on the shoreline. He knew he would not hear the voices again. They were still there, probably trying to catch his attention even now, but he couldn’t listen. He wouldn’t hear them again unless he forgave them for leaving him alone, and even then he would not be free to return. Maglor had always believed that he would eventually return home, but now he knew the truth was never certain. Despite wanting him to hear them, they hadn’t been watching. He would have remained with Sauron until the end of the world if it had been up to them. Alone, lost and forgotten. And without a doubt he knew they would do it again. Whatever he did now, and wherever he went, they would not intervene. He _was_ forgotten.

* * *

_The elf on the beach was crying He was on his knees at the side of the boat that would never take him anywhere, crying in the afternoon sun, alone and forgotten._

“One day you will give in to me. And how they will fear you, Maglor. They will never forget you again.”

_With tears still in his eyes, he looked away from the sea and the boat and his plans. He looked towards the beginning of the woods, as if he was already there. He knew how far away his prison and home was, how much distance he had covered. Still, he looked as though he was waiting for someone to appear from the shadow of the trees. Or something._

“Come back where I can reach you, _melethron nín_ …” Sauron breathed, waving his hands over the crystal, making his magic carry his very words to a beach where a lonely figure waited.

_Suddenly Maglor tensed and he closed his eyes as though he were listening. Slowly he stood again and made his way to the trees, his work and his dream of sleep as forgotten as he was. He truly was going home._

“Come back to me.”

_But he wasn’t forgotten, not completely, not by everyone._

* * *

Wordlessly, Maglor knelt at Sauron’s feet. He had heard the summons and had given in to it. _Come back to me_. He looked down. He had travelled so far, all the way back here, to him. And now he waited patiently.

“Choose it for yourself, _mûl nín_ ,” came the amused voice. Maglor looked up then, and as always caught his breath at the sight of the dark lord looking down at him. He truly did deserve to be worshipped. But he had something to say first, before his punishment. Something he wanted Sauron to know, something he intended to remember, even before the will of his Master.

“I don’t deserve this.” Sauron simply smiled at him, and there was something of long-awaited victory and triumph in it. Maglor looked away, confused.

“No, you don’t,” Sauron agreed enigmatically. He reached down and lifted Maglor’s chin, forcing him to make eye contact again. “Choose it for yourself,” he repeated, and Maglor began to cry silently in understanding. He knew what had happened, knew how the Valar had allowed Sauron to trap him, and he wasn’t sure whose side he was on. But he realised what Sauron had made him into – a slave. His slave. The dark lord had decided and created all of his desires, needs, and even his comforts. Sauron would spend forever giving him exactly what he had been taught to want, and sometimes exactly what he didn’t. But still, Maglor had chosen, by returning to this place; Sauron knew that just as well as he did. Never any secrets, not with him. Still, it felt so right to be on his knees before the dark lord, as always. Sauron waited for an answer.

“I could play for you, _Herdir_ ,” Maglor suggested eventually.

“Yes, I think I will enjoy that. You will suffer for my pleasure alone, as you always did.” Sauron pulled him to his feet, and then there was a kiss. The strange tenderness always felt like such a contradiction, coming from him. But it didn’t last, nothing did. He wore the clothes he found waiting for him on his return, after he had cleaned and prepared himself to face his Master. They were the same sheer and flimsy garments that Sauron had allowed him to wear before. It was the work of moments for Sauron to take them from him. He stood before the dark lord, unsure and certain at the same time, feeling that gaze move over him. He couldn’t help but be excited by his regard and Sauron smirked.

Sauron lifted him, and sat him on the desk. Maglor hardly dared breathe when the dark lord began to stroke his hardness with his hand, kissing his neck, and then suckling on his nipples. Maglor let his head fall back and tried desperately to ignore what was happening to him, aware that he wasn’t allowed to find release. But it was impossible to be ignorant when Sauron moved lower, now placing gentle kisses on his ribs and stomach, making him shiver and moan.

“Shh…” Sauron hushed him, and he concentrated on keeping silent, closing his eyes. So he didn’t see what was happening, and he couldn’t help but cry out when he felt Sauron’s lips and tongue replacing his hand. His eyes flew open and he looked down, just in time to see the dark lord taking him fully into his mouth. Hot, and slick. He felt the dark lord’s tongue sliding over his length again, and again. And his mouth, so welcoming, so perfectly tight when he sucked like that. He trembled now with the force of his desire, seeing his Master’s lips moving up and down his shaft, feeling _his_ tongue running over him. It was too much! But then a familiar voice came into his mind.

*Not yet… * the voice warned. *Stay exactly as you are, _mûl nín_.*

Maglor moaned inarticulately, unable to tear his eyes away from Sauron and what he was doing. He automatically raised his hands until he could twist his fingers in Sauron’s hair, not quite daring enough to pull him closer. That perfectly soft, black hair. And then he felt one of Sauron’s hands reaching beneath him, his fingers searching for entry inside him. He felt Sauron moan around his shaft when his first finger slipped in easily, because Maglor had prepared himself before coming here.

“ _Herdir_ … Aulendil, please…” Maglor gasped in excruciating need as Sauron began to massage him inside, the sensations so intense that the holding back began to hurt. But the dark lord didn’t let up, he carried on sucking and licking, taking Maglor deep into his throat each time. Carried on massaging, rhythmic and sustained. Maglor was moving mindlessly now, alternately thrusting into his Master’s mouth, and then moving back, only to feel Sauron’s fingers rubbing deep inside him. He tried desperately to hold back, afraid of the punishment, but he couldn’t. And he felt his orgasm rising in him, completely out of his control, despite Sauron’s order to wait. All he was and ever would be was centred in one place, his existence narrowed to a single point. It was as though Sauron wanted him to disobey. He did!

His climax came then, and he cried out, finally passing that smallest instant of time. Too late! He thought incoherently, and then realised it didn’t matter. As soon as he had the thought, he surrendered himself, almost unaware of Sauron encouraging him, swallowing his seed greedily. He called out Sauron’s true name over and over, feeling each wave of pleasure washing over him as it slowly dimmed, leaving him floating and breathless, weakened and barely conscious. He had fallen back, and now his weight rested entirely on Sauron’s arm. It felt as though his blood had been replaced with warm honey, and it moved through his veins slowly, lazy and languid. He half opened his eyes just in time to see the dark lord licking the last traces of his essence from his lips, still kneeling before him at the desk, and the sight made him groan. For a long minute or two there was silence, and Maglor was the first to break it.

“Thank you, _Herdir_ ,” he breathed, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that he had made the right decision, surprised that he could still form the words. Things were different now. Maglor almost looked forward to forever. He thought back to their very first meeting on the beach. Perspective – hadn’t that been a promise too?

Sauron smirked at him, amused, and now he remembered Sauron’s threat, but Maglor didn’t have the strength left in him to react. He simply watched, and then listened, finally understanding how this would work from now on.

“Thank you?” he asked mockingly, deliberately taking his words the wrong way. “Did I give you permission?”

“No, _Hîr nín_ ,” he returned, already sorry for it.

“And what is the punishment for that?” Sauron asked, cruelly taunting him.

Now Maglor did shiver, it was fitting to do so. But he wordlessly held out the hands that felt heavy and useless, giving himself over to his Master, choosing it. He had no God; by rejecting the Valar and his home, he had rejected Ilúvatar. He had no friends, and no enemies. He had no sins to be forgiven for, and no guilt. Why didn’t it feel like freedom? Sauron took his hands and he knew. He did have a God, and a friend, and an enemy. Someone to please or anger with his deeds. He would never be free, but he didn’t want to be. Not anymore. He was being given a comfort that Sauron would never bestow on the world. The dark lord stood up and chuckled, seemingly satisfied to take that as a reply, and led Maglor slowly away to the fate he had planned for him from the beginning, when he had heard the question: “Are you my punishment?”


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas is captured by Sauron long before the War of the Ring, and he encounters someone there whose fate was never known.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Returning from the borders for some rest – he never liked it. It always felt as though he was admitting he couldn’t defend himself. He knew exactly why that feeling bothered him, but he could never talk about it. Over a hundred years had passed since he had returned. As soon as he had fulfilled his promise, and sent anonymous letters to those who mourned for the missing, he had set to work on forgetting. There was no letter for his father. Merenon had gone missing too, while searching for him months after everyone else had given up. Sometimes he wondered about that, and he remembered Merenon’s green, laughing eyes, his enthusiasm for life… so like someone else that sometimes he was almost glad he didn’t have the reminder. He still refused to talk about where he had been and what had happened to him – even to his own father. And he really had tried to forget. Most of the time he succeeded. But still, helplessness was a terrible thing.

That was partly the reason he was so glad that his father hadn’t been able to lock the creature, Gollum, away. Such a sad thing it was. Legolas knew only too well what it was like to be captured by the enemy. Really, there was no wonder he was maddened and incoherent. Tonight he would rest, and when he awoke he would study himself in the mirror, trying to see if there was any indication of the scar he himself bore. He never did see it, but it was there, buried deep inside his mind. He would never be helpless again.

But now he walked with several other guards, and he lost himself in their conversation. He was well respected, well liked. Legolas was sometimes quiet but always dependable: a Prince who was a formidable archer. It didn’t matter to them the reasons for it. Prince Legolas was their pride, and their comrade. A role model for the younger generation since Daeron had retired to spend time with the King as his advisor. In turn, he genuinely enjoyed their company, and he hoped none of them would ever know loss.

“It seems Gollum has climbed a tree again, and he is refusing to come down,” remarked the elf wryly. Legolas sighed at that. Those around him shared his pity, though for different reasons. He was glad of it. There were those who took the view that Gollum should be locked up for his own safety, but Legolas was glad that those elves were few and far between.

“He will come down when he is ready to eat,” Legolas observed, and his companion nodded. Legolas smiled. “And talking of food…” he said, when he noticed the ‘Welcome Home’ preparations were already begun. The others around him grinned, and a few ran into the arms of those awaiting their return. He smiled again. Tonight would be a good night.

The patrols stayed on the borders for weeks at a time. And while for Legolas this wasn’t too much of a hardship, for some of the older Captains it was a great thing to return. They had families. Some had lovers that they missed desperately. Legolas had no one, although he wasn’t short of offers. But that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy the welcome home just as much. Good food, good company. And of course he could catch up with his father. Yes, coming home was a good thing. But before a week had passed he would be longing to return. He enjoyed fighting a little too much. But his experience was such that the King would never forbid him to go. Besides, his strength was not in politics.

* * *

Much later, Legolas strolled in the quieter parts of his home. It had indeed been a good night. Music, dancing, wine. He had been propositioned several times, but this evening he wanted to take for himself. He had several casual lovers, who knew what they were and didn’t ask for any more than he was willing to give. But he always preferred to spend his first evening back in reflection.

None of the elves he enjoyed being with could hold a candle to a certain dream he once had. Maglor. He still thought about him. Legolas hoped that he had crossed the sea safely, and it was only on nights like this that he gave any thought to him at all. Tomorrow he would forget again, and lose himself in life. He really wasn’t unhappy.

Wandering through the woods, he came to a largish tree with a couple of guards posted beneath it, and when they realised who he was they saluted immediately. So this was where Gollum had decided to hide out. He motioned for the guards to be at ease, and looked up curiously into the branches of the tree. A muffled singsong voice could be heard. Gollum was talking to himself.

“We wants to be free, precious. Don’t we? Yes, we wants to be let go! Horrible elves’ watching us down there.” A sudden rustling and Legolas caught sight of a tormented face peering at him through the leaves. He frowned, and the face disappeared. A horrible laugh floated down, and the guards looked at each other and shivered.

“He does that a lot,” explained one of them to Legolas. “It’s really eerie if you ask me, how he talks to himself. As if there were two of him.” Legolas looked up again, but there was no movement now.

“Two of him. Yes. There is you, isn’t there, precious? And there is… me!” The disconcerting laugh again. “We is sorry!” Now the voice sounded genuinely sad. “But we wants to be free, we wants it so much, we will be hiding in this tree.” Gollum giggled at the rhyme. Legolas shook his head and made to walk on. Such a sad fate.

As he walked away, a slight movement caught his eye. Legolas looked suddenly to the left of him. Orcs! How had they got here? Was it possible they had sneaked past those on watch? Legolas was never unarmed, even for a night of dancing. It was one of the things his lovers teased him about. But now he was glad of insisting on it. He fitted an arrow to his bow, and fired at the first pair of yellow eyes he caught moving in the bushes. The two guards were only a second or so behind him, and their arrows flew straight too.

There were a couple of pained grunts and sounds of falling in the brush, but then suddenly the entire woods seemed to be twinkling with shining eyes. Legolas cursed, and then he had a sudden vision of those on guard at the edges of the safe area lying dead. Outnumbered and slaughtered easily.

“Prince Legolas! We must retreat. They have come for the creature, I’m sure of it! Let us hasten to give the tidings that orcs run in the woods!” There was sense in the argument, and Legolas turned to the guards, and he saw what they did. There was no retreat – they were surrounded.

The first wave was easily despatched, but more came, and they began to crowd in on the three elves. They switched to swords when the orcs came too close for use of the bow, but the two guards were quickly overpowered. Legolas frowned. None of the orcs would challenge him. Why not? He cut a couple down where they stood, and still there were none for him to fight, but then he looked forward and he gasped. An elf walked towards him, through the ugly crowding of orcs he almost seemed to shine, and he was so very familiar. He looked just like Legolas. After all this time.

“‘Athân!” Legolas stayed still and waited as the vision came closer. Was it true? Had he come home? He found himself embraced by his own son, and Legolas, Prince of Mirkwood, fighter and warrior, began to cry happy tears. He hadn’t told anyone about ‘Athân. He thought he never would. But now he was home.

“ _Adar_ ,” ‘Athân breathed into Legolas’ ear, and then he was being kissed. It should be wrong, but it wasn’t. It shouldn’t be natural, but it was. He knew these lips, this face, this body as well as his own. A sudden hunger burned in Legolas and he kissed back with a fiery passion that his lovers’ had never known.

The orcs were forgotten, and there was only this, only them, only him. A frenzied kind of lust that needed to be sated, almost like a desperate thirst for knowledge. Legolas wasn’t sure who was where, who did what. He became confused as to who was who in the tumbling together on the ground, and the tangling of long limbs. He saw through both sets of eyes and watched himself.

A warm hand stroked against his thigh. Smooth skin beneath his palm, pale and beautiful. And as if their touches could speak, Legolas thought his words so strongly he could hear them.

*Never wanted to leave you there, not really. I had no choice.*

It was incest and narcissism perfectly combined, it was almost a blessing, almost right. His son! Taking this stranger he knew so well, making love to a reflection, it was almost a sin, almost wrong. His father! And ‘Athân answered with his hands and his kisses.

*I know. I’m sorry, _Adar_. So sorry.*

If there was time for tears this was surely it, but they wouldn’t come. There was only the welcoming home, and the joyful reunion.

*Please, don’t be sorry.*

Time slowed for them, and an eternity was theirs for the taking. This was different. This was real. This was hunger and satisfaction. And their words mingled too, their thoughts, their feelings.

*No, don’t regret. Love me.*

Did it matter anymore who spoke, or who thought, when their flesh was one and the same? Just to be closer, to melt together in heat. To share each other.

*Hold me. Be with me.*

They only removed enough of their clothes to carry out the act, and Legolas wasn’t sure which position he was in, or if they changed. Such burning pain. He moaned at the feel of it, and he was sorry for hurting him. It was fast but it lasted a lifetime. He saw everything he had ever done, everywhere he had ever been, and everyone he had ever known. None of it compared to this.

When it was over he looked into ‘Athân’s eyes for a long moment, touched his face with shaking hands, and his son looked back at him with his own eyes. He became aware of the orcs again, because they pulled ‘Athân away from him. ‘Athân fought against them uselessly.

Legolas stood, and then too calmly, he bent down to pick up the dropped weapons from the ground.

“No! No!” ‘Athân screamed for a second before roughened hands covered his mouth. Legolas looked at him, and his father screamed again. This time silently. Helplessly. The future was over. Legolas watched until the vision was over, then he shook his head in the manner of someone waking from a dream. His life had just begun. And it began with driving the orcs back from this part of Mirkwood. Later, Legolas would find that they had lost Gollum during the attack.

* * *

Now he looked into familiar blue eyes, but they were familiar for a different reason. Legolas’ first reaction had been absolute terror on finding himself back here. He knew so well where this was. But after some time spent panicking, he reasoned to himself he was not the same youngster who had been held here so long ago. And hadn’t he and Maglor escaped before? He began to wander the endless maze of rooms and corridors, looking for the stairs that would show the way out, but he couldn’t find them. He wondered if they were deliberately veiled from him, but then Maglor had entered the room he was in, and Legolas simply couldn’t comprehend why he was here.

“Maglor…?” he said uncertainly. He hadn’t seen Maglor for nearly a century, and yet he didn’t remember the other elf looking quite like this. There was something a little too cold in his gaze, a little wrong. He shivered, although it was quite warm.

“I’m not in the mood for your games, ‘Athân.” He spoke quickly. “Where is your father?” he demanded impatiently before Legolas had time for his first words to sink in.

“My father?” he said in confusion. “Thranduil…?” What did he have to do with any of this? A look of disgust and hatred flitted over Maglor’s face.

“Forget it,” he said dismissively. And then Legolas understood. He reached out to grasp Maglor’s arm.

“No!” he protested, wanting to confide in his old friend, however it was he happened to be here. “You don’t understand. It’s me…” Maglor simply stared at him. “It’s Legolas.” For a second there was something of warmth in the other elf’s eyes, but then it was gone. He pushed Legolas away from him.

“You’ve been driven mad by the idea,” he suggested, unmoved by Legolas’ look of horror, or the shaking of his head. “What’s the matter with you? You’re an elf! You don’t lose your mind – not here!” His words brought his imprisonment from before to mind so clearly that Legolas whimpered, and backed away, seeking an escape from the accusations. “Stop it! Stop trying to be him or I swear I’ll kill you!” He cringed away from the other elf’s raised hand, but the blow never fell, and Legolas unknowingly spoke his thoughts out loud.

“Ezelpathân…” whispered Legolas faintly to no one in particular. “It means Legolas!” Maglor gave him a look of pure revulsion. “You don’t believe me!” he said then, suddenly understanding exactly why. ‘Athân had been here before, and to Maglor, that is who he was. Maglor laughed harshly.

“I have to go.” Legolas didn’t have the heart to stop him. He didn’t know the words to use to convince Maglor who he was. At least, not yet. Later, he would bring their parting words to mind from so long ago, and remind Maglor of them so that they knew each other. Things would be different then.

* * *

Maglor came upon his Master in the giant bed he favoured. Sauron didn’t need to rest, but he did so because he enjoyed it. Maglor could appreciate that. He stood for a few moments, just watching the dark lord sleep. Things had indeed changed on his return. Although he was still Sauron’s slave, shaped and moulded to his will and desires in every way, he had more freedom. This place he occupied was a choice, and he found there were rewards involved. Watching his Master sleep was one of them.

Yes, things had definitely changed. One of Maglor’s greatest rewards had been a few months after his return when Sauron had showed him into a room and he found himself holding an armful of green-eyed, exuberant joy. There hadn’t been words for his delight and gratitude – but he knew not to take anything for granted, and he had become Mithedhel’s teacher at the same time as he had remained the perfect slave to his Master.

He couldn’t resist after a few minutes, and shed his clothes easily to creep beneath the covers. There was only one way to wake Sauron, something they both enjoyed. Underneath the bedclothes, Maglor took hold of his Master’s soft sex and began to lick and tease until he was hard enough for Maglor to take into his mouth. He heard Sauron moan above him as he awoke, and parted his legs so that Maglor could settle between them and dedicate himself to his task. It was so warm in here, like a secret world where all that existed was Sauron’s pleasure, and the very real sense of achievement and pride at being the one who pleased him.

There were times when Sauron used him roughly and quickly, with violence, especially his mouth, but to awaken his Master properly required finesse and attention to detail. Maglor brought to mind all the things that Sauron enjoyed and performed them for him now, actively enjoying every moan and sigh that he coaxed from Sauron’s lips. He knew Sauron so intimately by now, knew this part of him especially well. He knew that when he flicked his tongue just there that his Master would shiver deliciously, knew that when he moved up, letting Sauron’s hardness slide over the side of his face that Sauron would moan, imagining how it looked. And that when he closed his lips over the head and moved down, feeling every well-known ridge and vein, moving his tongue back and forth rhythmically that his Master would thrust into his mouth helplessly. Yes, Sauron could be made helpless by such things, and it aroused Maglor to know that.

He gave in to his own desire, drawing it out, making it last, savouring every last inch as he swallowed Sauron’s length. He used his hands too, caressing and teasing until at last Sauron came with a cry into his mouth. Maglor swallowed it all, and then enthusiastically cleaned his Master’s satiated flesh gently with his tongue like a cat. Eventually he moved up the bed and poked his head out of the covers to rest against Sauron’s chest at his encouragement.

“Good, _mûl nín_ ,” he sighed in satisfaction with his eyes closed. “Always so good. You always know what I want.” Maglor didn’t contradict his Master. He spoke the truth. He was aware that he had been made this way over millennia, and that he probably shouldn’t enjoy his role so much. But then he had to wonder. Sauron had given him the capacity to enjoy his enslavement too. He smiled happily, not caring one iota that Sauron had fashioned and shaped his desires. He was at peace here.

“Thank you, _Herdir_ ,” he replied quietly and respectfully. His own hardness rested against Sauron’s thigh, and his eyes slid half-closed when Sauron moved a little to gather Maglor fully into his warm embrace, rubbing his leg against his slave’s arousal too teasingly for it to be accidental. Maglor moaned wantonly, longing to rub himself against his Master, but knowing he mustn’t. Instead he took a deep breath in to compose himself and then began to speak. “I came to tell you that the orcs have brought news. Gollum has been retrieved from Mirkwood.”

“Excellent!” Maglor looked up sharply. The news wasn’t _that_ good. He smiled.

“Legolas is back too,” he observed innocently, the smile still on his lips. Sauron looked at him and smiled back in confirmation.

“Yes, it has been a while,” he said, giving nothing away. Maglor rested his head against Sauron’s chest again for a while, and then after a few minutes, he spoke again.

“Will ‘Athân be able to help you… outside?” He was well aware by now of ‘Athân’s fate, but he hadn’t known when it was to happen. And still, he didn’t know what Sauron’s precise plans for him were. All he knew was that ‘Athân did not just look like Legolas, he was a perfect copy in every way, and Sauron had taught the child everything he would need to know to take his father’s place. He wondered how it had happened? What had Legolas thought when he saw himself? Sauron had mentioned to him once that there would be magic involved when they met, as ‘Athân would need to share some of Legolas’ memories.

“No,” Sauron replied, and Maglor was even more puzzled. “His time isn’t now. If everything went as it should then he doesn’t even remember being here. Simply put, he _is_ his father. He may even fight against me, if he so wishes.” Maglor gasped at that. “But when he sails, I can take him over. Legolas will stay here, where I can keep an eye on his soul. The Valar undoubtedly know what I have done, but they cannot interfere. However, it wouldn’t do for Legolas’ family to find out the truth.” Maglor spent several minutes processing this information. Sauron’s plans took his breath away, they were so perfect, and he was in awe of his Master all over again. Then a very wicked thought occurred to him, and he smiled up at Sauron mischievously.

“Can I have him, _Herdir_?” Sauron finally took hold of his slave’s neglected arousal and began to caress him. Maglor’s eyes closed, and he willed himself to relax while Sauron played with him, turning his body and his pleasure over to his Master, to do what he would.

“If you want, _mûl vain nín_ ,” he said against Maglor’s hair while his hand continued to move up and down, over him again and again, making him tremble like a leaf in a rainstorm. “I can refuse you nothing.” Maglor moaned when the hand speeded up, and he turned his head away, only to moan again when he felt Sauron’s teeth graze his neck. “He will fade though,” Sauron said seriously against his throat, making his skin vibrate deliciously. “There is nothing to keep his body here, and my magic will not be enough this time.” Maglor writhed beneath Sauron’s attentions, but he was under control. It was something Sauron had always demanded from him.

“But there is,” he argued, managing to open his eyes and turn his head to share a secret smile with Sauron. “First,” Maglor said quietly, “he has to make me believe it’s him.” He was surprised when the hand stopped torturing him, and Sauron looked shocked for a moment. But then he laughed delightedly, pulling Maglor close to dominate his mouth with a hard and hungry kiss. Maglor submitted to that as he did to everything else.

“Oh, _mûl vain nín_ ,” he said at last, rolling over to trap Maglor beneath him, letting him feel how aroused he was, again. “You are perfect!” Sauron held Maglor’s arms against the bed, and ground his hips against his slave so that they both sighed together. Lust called to him, but Maglor continued, loving that he was pleasing Sauron like this.

“Then, he will try to save me.” He threw a quick, accusing glance up above him to indicate his trapped arms before wrapping his long legs around Sauron’s waist in clear invitation. Sauron grinned.

“I think I may have taught you too well,” he said, still laughing a little. “But save you from what, exactly?” He got an evil look that Maglor didn’t trust. “Would you like to play a game?” he asked suggestively, and Maglor felt fear instantly race up his spine like an icy finger. Still, the fear made his desire burn brighter, and he wanted Sauron more than ever.

“No,” he said truthfully.

“I didn’t think so…” And Maglor was sure that whatever game they were playing, it had already begun.

 

_~ finis ~_

To be continued in a sequel…  



End file.
